


Ship of Fools

by Snowgrouse



Category: Original Work, Thief of Bagdad (1940), كتاب ألف ليلة وليلة | Kitaab 'alf layla wa-layla | One Thousand and One Nights
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Anal Sex (female receiving), Androgynous male character, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, BDSM, Bisexuality, Biting, Bondage, Dark Het, Dominant Male Character, F/F, F/M, Fingering, First Time, Frottage, Healing Sex, Heroine/Villain, Heterosexual Anal Sex (female receiving), Historical, Hurt/Comfort, Lesbian Anal Sex, Lesbianism, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Magic, Magic as sex aid, Masturbation, Multi, Muslim characters, Older Man/Younger Woman, Oral Sex, Protectiveness, Rimming, Romance, Rough Sex, Stripping, Submissive Female Character, The Thousand And One Nights - Freeform, Threesome - F/F/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism, face fucking, gagging, heterosexual anal sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-14 02:10:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 34,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1248805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowgrouse/pseuds/Snowgrouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>She jumps and lets the sea take her. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>The water is cold, shockingly cold as her body crashes into it, as the sea soaks her wedding dress and  drags her down, deep down into its depths. She stiffens her body, resists the urge to swim, resists: for  what is there left for her without Ahmad? He had not come for her, had abandoned her, just like her father  had abandoned her to that <b>beast.</b></i>
</p><p>When Ahmad fails to arrive, Yassamin realises she has placed too much faith in fairytales. But if Ahmad had not been a djinni, would that also mean Jaffar was not the monster she'd thought him to be? Jaffar had saved her life time and time again, had offered her his love, had offered to become the most loving of husbands. Yet, the very idea of yielding to him terrifies her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

***

She jumps and lets the sea take her. 

The water is cold, shockingly cold as her body crashes into it, as the sea soaks her wedding dress and drags her down, deep down into its depths. She stiffens her body, resists the urge to swim, resists: for what is there left for her without Ahmad? He had not come for her, had abandoned her, just like her father had abandoned her to that _beast_.

She sinks, sinks and all thoughts leave her. It's dark and it's cold, and she's at peace. 

Yet that peace is broken by three bright blasts, three syllables of golden fire. They slam into her body, kicking the water out of her lungs. She's snatched up, lifted up by a pair of arms around her, another's body dragging her to the surface. She coughs up water, screams in rage. 

"Let me go!" She splashes, kicks at the man clutching her against himself. "Let me go!"

With a growl, Jaffar loosens his grip, only to wrap his arm around her neck and shoulders. "I am not going to let you do this to yourself!" he shouts in her face, furious.

She coughs again, dizzy, and all she can think of is how different he looks without his turban, with his dark hair plastered to his cheeks. Even through his anger, she can see genuine shock and concern in his eyes as he stares at her, incomprehending. She thinks of telling him how much she hates him, how she would rather die than marry him, but the look on his face silences her. She says nothing, only grows slack in his arms, defiant even as she yields.

"Now, save your breath," he says and holds her against himself as he begins to swim back towards the ship. 

***

She lies on the floor of his cabin, retching seawater, shuddering from chills. Patiently, Jaffar waits beside her, stroking her back until she's finished. His slave girls mop up the mess, bringing them towels, blankets, wine. 

Jaffar gestures for the girls to leave them, then offers Yassamin the cup. "Drink this."

Blearily, she shakes her head and pushes the cup away. "No."

"It's medicinal. I mixed a herbal theriac into it. The restorative effect will be stronger with the wine."

"I don't believe you."

He lets out a weary sigh. "If you want me to list every single herb and the oils the alcohol releases from those herbs, alongside the effects of each oil on the human body, I will. If I wanted to intoxicate you, don't you think I would've done so a long time ago?"

She glares at him weakly, and realises what a scene they're making, how ridiculous they look. A princess in a soaked, ruined wedding dress, wiping vomit from her mouth; the shah of all of Persia squatting barefoot beside her only in his trousers, equally soaked. 

She sits up, gathering her blanket around herself, suddenly all too aware of her own body, of his near-nakedness. The only males she's seen in such a state of undress have been children and Ethiopian eunuchs; never has she seen a grown Persian man like this, his skin gleaming pink and brown, his nipples the same shade of red as his mouth. Swiftly, she accepts the cup so that he won't notice she is staring, so that she won't have to speak.

But she finds herself staring nevertheless, even as Jaffar guides her to sit on a bed of cushions. She stares at the way the wet, white silk clings to his thighs, at the way his flesh moves between them, her mind comparing and contrasting each bulge and curve with the images of men's genitals she's seen in love manuals. Drawn men were one thing, but the warm, living male she now sees, feels next to herself--the odours of his body, his perfumes filling her nostrils--a shudder of fright runs through her and she has to move her gaze elsewhere.

Yet her mind still runs through lists of various man types mentioned in the manuals. Some men were described as tigers, others as elephants, some as gazelles: she cannot help but wonder which category Jaffar would belong in. In body, he looks more akin to a cheetah than any other animal: his limbs far longer and thinner than she'd imagined, and just as on a cheetah, she can count his ribs. He is but a thin, aging man; why should she fear him so?

Perhaps it is the heat of his hand on her back, the unnatural blue of his eyes, or simply the power he exudes: thin or not, soaked or dry, he carries himself with more command than any king, any prince she has ever seen. And yet his hand is hesitant on her back, as if he was still slightly afraid of touching her. It is not the way a king behaves, not at all like the way Ahmad had swept her off her feet and claimed her. Therefore, she cannot comprehend him. The sensual, delicate nature of his movements, the catlike note of his voice, the feminine beauty of his eyes--all of these things disturb her to her very core. He is unnatural, two-sexed like they say all true witches are, a man who speaks and moves like a woman. 

And yet that bulge between his legs marks him as anything but woman; a bulge fat, long, and she has to stop _staring_. But now she has emptied her cup and she has no choice but to move, to speak. So she hands him the cup, forcing herself to meet his eyes. "Thank you."

He strokes her back, measuring her with his gaze. "Do you feel any better?"

"Slightly less drowned."

He moves his hand to her shoulder, stern, now. "Promise me you will not try anything of the sort again."

She casts her eyes down and sighs. She feels stupid, so stupid. It had been an impulse, a foolish young girl's impulse. Had she truly even wanted to end her life? "I cannot promise you anything," she mumbles, because she no longer knows what she feels. If she is capable of something that stupid, what else is she capable of? She feels around for her self and finds she no longer knows its shape. Within these past few weeks, she had been married off to an old man, had fallen in love with a prince she had thought a djinni, had run away, had been bought and sold and rescued and drowned and rescued once more. That maiden princess she had been but a while ago no longer exists.

"I don't even know myself, Jaffar. If you were to ask me who Yassamin of Basra was, now," she says, quietly, "I would not be able to tell you." 

Jaffar lifts her chin with his fingertips, and it is then that she sees his eyes are glimmering with tears. "Know that this is not how I wanted to spend my wedding day. If it's me you fear, I will leave you in peace. You shall be my wife, but in name only. Trust that I shan't molest you." His voice is softer, wavering a little; she can tell he is struggling to control himself. He might be speaking noble words, but the way he now trembles, the way his eyes shine with that love-madness he carries for her in his heart--how could she trust him? 

She takes his hand and squeezes it, laying it in her lap. "And what would we do in Basra, then?" she whispers, looking at their joined hands. "They will all assume one man or another has claimed me. The moment I left the palace--" she chokes on a sob, that dark death wish stirring within her once more at the hopelessness of her situation. The moment she had left the palace, her virtue had been forfeit. She'd first realised it when the slavers had captured her, when that old hag at the marketplace had reached between her legs and declared her virgin. People would no longer believe she was untouched when she told them so; only a midwife could ascertain the truth. And even if she and Jaffar had their marriage annulled now and she were free to seek another husband--no. She would not be able to bear the shame of her father sending another midwife to her chambers to prove her innocence--the entire palace would talk, and where would her suitors be then? Who would marry a princess in the habit of running away in search of strange men?

"They'll imagine I'm a harlot, at best," she whispers, her tears falling on Jaffar's hand. "And at worst, whip me to death for running away from my husband."

Jaffar squeezes her hand, brings it to his lips and kisses her tears from it. "My little fool. Your father and I were worried sick for you. Why do you think I cursed Ahmad and that boy?" He is trembling now, his eyes flashing with fury--not at her, she realises from the way his gaze turns inwards, but at the memory of Ahmad. "Imagine what I thought when you had disappeared and they found those two rogues in your garden. Ahmad does not know women; he would have but amused himself with you a while, I am sure of it." His voice grows thin, reedy from hatred. "I thought he had _raped you,_ " he spits. "My blood boiled. We'd signed the marriage agreement; you were mine and I was to love you well, to keep you safe from harm. And that--that miserable _idiot_ had thought it amusing to take you from me, use you like a plaything when I, I _loved you_ \--"

He lets go of her hand, clutching his own knees instead, swearing under his breath. "I was too kind. I should have struck him dead where he stood."

She shakes her head. "Jaffar, how can you love someone you have never met?"

He does not look up at her; his voice is soft, melancholy, delicate. "I have loved you for longer than you think, Yassamin of Basra."

She does not know what to answer; his words stun her into silence. She knew his love was a madness, but she never knew how deep that madness ran. 

He gets up, moving slightly too fast, clearly too agitated to stay still. "I'll leave this cabin to you. The girls are next door; call them if you need anything." He sniffs back tears, then flashes her a wry smile. "As long as it's not arsenic."

She wipes her own tears on her sleeve. "And will I return to Basra as your wife?" She despairs, yet her words come out sounding like a plea.

He laughs a little. Shaking his head, he squats in front of her and kisses her head. "As the most honourable of queens, with your maidenhood intact." He withdraws, quirks his eyebrow and grins wickedly, his crooked teeth gleaming white. "Unless, of course, you should demand otherwise. Good night."

"Good night," she mumbles as he closes the door behind himself.

***

She lies in bed, the noises of the ship and her own mind too loud to allow her sleep. Just like on all the other nights, Ahmad fails to arrive, and she thinks of nothing but the fool she's been. A stupid girl, nothing more, when most women of her age had already stepped into the world of adulthood. All her life, she'd put too much faith in dreams, in fairytales. For years, she had thought she was special, that there was a fate set aside for her that would be different from that of other princesses. That her true love would not be a man of flesh and blood, but a prince made of smokeless fire.

 _"How can you love someone you have never met?"_ she had asked Jaffar, but isn't she an authority on that particular subject? She, if anyone, knows what it is like to wait for years. To long for the touch of a lover she has never known, for the day his lips would finally kiss hers.

She had wished for a lover so much that she had fashioned one. Out of her dreams, out of the summer breezes, out of the waters of her pond she had fashioned him, breathed life to him with her own, loving whispers. 

He was a djinni, and he visited her garden every day. 

Their trysts were secret, of course. When everyone else slept in the noonday heat, she would lay herself down upon the grass, imagining her lover's caresses in the shade of the trees. Even if he was invisible, she would always recognise his presence from certain sounds, certain touches. The leaves would rustle in a certain way and then he would be upon her: he would lift her hair, greet her with a kiss on the nape of her neck. The shiver that kiss always brought her would make her limbs unfold upon the grass, make her spread herself wide open underneath him. He would kiss her, kiss her as he took her, lying on top of her, she'd thought, her own hands miming his touches on her breasts, her cunny. 

On some days, when her djinni was in one of his moods, he would tell her to lie down on her belly, make her stroke herself between her legs as he entered her from behind. Like an animal he would move on top of her, pressing her into the grass, staining her face and her clothes green. And it was then that she--he--would slip his hand between her buttocks, too, pressing cruelly upon her anus, demanding forbidden, illicit acts. And oh, how she had relished these transgressions, imagining herself being taken like a boy, having had no idea a woman could enjoy it so. It had been her djinni that had taught her the pleasures hidden between the buttocks, pleasures that surpassed all others.

And now, she turns over onto her stomach and rides her hands, remembering the touches of her djinni. But tonight, she weeps, sobs at her loss, sobs even as climax overtakes her: at how lonely this dream has left her, how alone in the world, susceptible to the first idiot who had stumbled into her garden and thought to play a trick on her. Her djinni had not had a face, and she would have preferred it that way: she wishes she could erase the memory of Ahmad's face from her mind's pool forever.

She cries until she is exhausted, wrung dry by her self-pity. Jaffar had been right to call her a little fool; look where her dreams had got her. Romancing some stupid scoundrel of a prince who had forgotten her for the sake of a boy; running away, destroying her reputation, nearly killing herself because of her love for him.

And now she's trapped on this ship, perhaps trapped in marriage for the rest of her years with another miserable dreamer, a lover of phantasms: what sorts of foolish visions has Jaffar entertained of _her?_ How long has he dreamt of marrying the magical creature they call a princess--a symbol of beauty and grace and delicate sweetness? For it is a dream he has fallen in love with, an image as ephemeral as her djinni. He, too, will be disappointed in the end, she thinks. She is only a human being made of flesh and blood; with her fears, with her flaws. 

And to be frank, she is quite possibly the stupidest princess that ever lived. A fine match for someone who's supposed to be the wisest man in Persia, the man who had built the great libraries of Baghdad, libraries greater than those of Alexandria itself.

Yet even the wisest man in Persia had become a tyrant, and is now madly in love with a woman he barely knows. He's mad; they're both mad. Perhaps, she thinks wryly, they aren't such a bad match after all.

***

Days pass; they are still at sea. She asks him where they are going, but he refuses to answer. From what she can make out from the sailors' murmurs, from the positions of the stars, they are sailing precisely nowhere. She wonders if Jaffar is still afraid that Ahmad would come after her, and feels oddly flattered. 

Yet she's sick of this game, and the slave girls even more so. One evening, she is about to call for tea when she overhears two of the girls talking about Jaffar. She squints through the latticework window between her cabin and theirs and spies two of the more sharp-tongued ones: the feisty little Noor and her older friend, Leila. Presently, Noor throws herself dramatically upon the cushions and groans. 

"I want to go home. I want to be able to bathe properly, to eat normal food again. I'd rather drown than eat another one of those _hideous_ biscuits."

Leila sits down and strokes Noor's blonde curls, clearly used to tantrums like these. "You'll be of no use to the master dead." 

Noor scoffs. "As if I--as if any of us were of any use to him lately. He hasn't touched me in four weeks!"

"Lucky girl. He hasn't touched me in six." Leila raises her eyebrow. "Ever since he set his eyes on Her Little Highness."

Noor twirls her hair around her finger. "He's wasting his time. She's frigid, like all girls from good families are. And I--I was trained in Medina, for heaven's sakes, the best school for singing-girls in the entire Caliphate--" 

"Not that you'd ever let us forget," Leila sighs. "I don't know what he keeps us for, either. If it's only handmaidens he wants, that is. Dressing his little doll hardly requires an entertainer's skills."

"She _is_ pretty."

"Very."

"But she isn't like you or I; she does not know love the way we do. Do high-born women even know love? Would she even know where to touch him if he asked her to? Would she even know her own body, know what kinds of touches to request from him?"

"It's her purity that attracts him," Leila says, "I'm sure of it. When she slept in our house, I overheard him saying he wanted to teach her. Think of it! The master fancies himself a teacher in the art of love."

Noor nods, pouting. "Teaching her all the tricks _we_ first showed him."

Leila leers. "Imagine it. Her Little Highness's face when he reaches between her legs and--" she hooks her fingers and curls them upwards, sharply. Both girls burst into laughter, falling onto the cushions, cackling like old hags. 

"Her--her eyes would bulge so they'd fall out of their sockets!" Noor gasps for breath. "And when--when she finds out what his favourite pleasure is--" 

Leila laughs into Noor's shoulder. "Merciful God. Think of it; all her life she's been brought up to bear heirs. I'll bet you a hundred dinars she doesn't even know a man can't impregnate a woman that way, and she keeps waiting, and wondering when the baby's going to arrive--" now it's Leila who is laughing too much, too short of breath to go on.

"Where would the baby come out of?" Noor is practically shrieking with giggles. "Her lily white royal arse?"

As both girls fall over in hysterics, Yassamin turns away from the window, hissing with rage. She has a good mind to burst into the cabin, grab both girls by their jackets and toss them into the sea. She might be a virgin, but that doesn't give them the right--a couple of pleasure slaves, how dare they--

Yet a soft moan makes her turn back. Noor makes the noise again, spreading her legs on the cushions. Leila is leaning over her playfully, her own dark curls brushing Noor's bare waist. "He has been neglecting us, that much is certain," Leila murmurs.

"I miss his touch," Noor sighs. "His hands."

Leila slips her hand between Noor's legs and hushes her softly. "When he cups you in his hand, like this?"

Noor bites her lip. "Yes." 

Leila kisses her ear. "Do you want me to play the master for you, my child?" Her voice becomes softer, more feline; her hand slower between Noor's legs. "To take you like a man?"

Noor's only answer is an undignified squeak. She unbuttons her jacket and lets her heavy breasts fall out, then pulls Leila into a kiss. 

Yassamin is appalled, yet cannot tear herself away. She watches as Leila slowly strips herself and then Noor, sliding her clothes off with firm caresses, then settles herself between the fullness of Noor's thighs. Noor is squirming; her bright pink nipples are hard, pointing skywards and she is clawing at the cushions. "Please, master."

Leila tuts and croons, so much like Jaffar; the very sound goes straight through Yassamin's flesh, flooding her cunny with heat. To think of Jaffar like this, worshipping between a woman's legs, oh--

"Ask properly, my child, and I might give it to you. What is it that you want?"

"Please, master. Please kiss me there."

Leila grins, nuzzling Noor's thighs. "Kiss you where? Here?"

Noor squirms. "No! Lower."

Leila brings her thumb to the top of Noor's slit, withdrawing to look at her so that Yassamin, too, can see everything: the way Noor's bare, pink cunny gleams in the afternoon light, slick and wet, and Leila hasn't even kissed it yet. Yassamin imagines Jaffar teasing a woman like this, torturing a woman with the promise of pleasure: if the girls are but re-enacting the experience, how exquisite would their experience have been with Jaffar himself? She presses her thighs tighter together and knows, knows she is just as wet as Noor is. 

Noor's feet kick on the cushions and she lifts her hips towards Leila's mouth. "Master..."

Leila shakes her head. "Where do you want my kiss?"

"On my cunny. Please, master."

Leila opens her mouth and flicks out her tongue, flicks it across Noor's slit, drawing strings of her wetness out of her cunny. Yassamin suffocates a moan at the sight: so beautiful, so shocking in its lewdness that she has to balance herself against the windowframe. 

Leila smacks her lips theatrically, murmuring in delight. "Do you want another kiss?"

Noor reaches out to spread her thighs, so that her cunny is pushed out, plump, and now Yassamin can see the dip of her anus, too: a darker pink than the rest of her, her wetness having spread there too, making all of her glisten and gleam. "I would want nothing more, master."

Leila spreads the cleft of Noor's buttocks with her thumbs, blowing on her arse, and Noor positively spasms upon the cushions. Leila blows again and chuckles low in her throat, rocking her own hips. "Do you want me to kiss this little hole, too? To _fuck_ it?"

"Yes!" Noor sobs.

"Then let me see how much you truly enjoy it. Call out my name." Leila begins to lap at Noor's cunny, lap at it so loudly Yassamin can hear each wet sound. Yassamin bites her lip and slips her own hand between her legs; she cannot sit here like this without touching herself. She closes her eyes and thinks of--God, merciful God, what is she thinking of? She hates that beast, hates him. No. She has to open her eyes and look at the girls instead.

At first, Noor's noises are unintelligible, but as Leila continues to tease her, withdrawing whenever Noor goes quiet, Noor becomes more obedient. Yassamin wonders if this is how Leila always disciplines Noor; if this is how Jaffar keeps the pampered little trollop in line. For now she moans "Jaffar!" with abandon, in complete submission, her eyes falling shut in ecstasy. She rocks against Leila's mouth, sobbing, her hips trembling as she's devoured--as Jaffar, not Leila takes her with his mouth. It's the most sinful of sexual acts, the most unmanly, and to think that Jaffar would perform it upon slave girls--oh, the low, vile beast! Yet Yassamin finds herself trembling just as much as Noor does, rocking into her hand the way Noor rocks her hips onto Leila's tongue, against Leila's sucking, slurping, panting mouth. Yassamin can feel the first tremors of orgasm lashing through herself, has to sit on her hand to make those ripples rise in her hips faster, faster.

"Jaffar!" Noor cries out loudly, and it is then that their cabin door opens.

"Girls, girls," Jaffar laughs as he takes in the scene. "Whatever is the matter that you should cry for me so?"

Noor gasps in horror and tries to close her legs, but Leila holds them open. She meets Jaffar's gaze boldly. "This is what happens when you neglect us, master."

Jaffar tilts his head, tutting as he takes a long look at Noor's flushed, swollen cunny. "I see," he leers. "Although the two of you seem to be managing quite well without me."

Noor lifts herself on her elbows. "Please, master; don't tease. Can't you see how much I've missed you? How both of us have missed you." 

Leila nods and lifts herself up, too, laying her hand on Jaffar's thigh. "We were trained to live for pleasure alone. And pleasure is what you bought us for. Would you now deny us that?"

Jaffar kneels on the cushions and brings his hands to both girls' heads, stroking their hair in a paternal fashion. "Once we are back in Basra, I shall manumit you both; give both of you your weight in gold. Find you both good husbands."

"But we don't want that!" Noor exclaims. She kneels before Jaffar and lays her little hands on his chest, like a child who has been denied a treat. "Where on earth would we find another man like you?"

"Where indeed?" Leila echoes, bolder, sliding her hand between Jaffar's legs. "These things don't grow on trees. Will you not give us a loving farewell at least?"

Jaffar laughs and shakes his head. He is hard under Leila's hand, Yassamin can tell; the thin blue silk of his suit cannot disguise his state. He groans into Leila's hair as she strokes him through the fabric, groans louder as Noor's hand joins Leila's. "No. I mustn't."

"But can she touch you the way we do?" Noor croons in his ear, slipping her other hand behind his hips. A harsh gasp leaves Jaffar's throat as Noor moves her hand. Yassamin cannot see, but she can guess where Noor's fingertips are playing at; she shudders a little in disgust. Yet, Noor keeps stroking Jaffar, keeps purring into his ear. "Would a chaste little princess stroke you _here,_ master?" she murmurs, "Like I do?"

Jaffar trembles, unable to answer, his hands clutching at Leila's hair, at Noor's shoulder. He huffs, groans as Leila reaches between the folds of his silks and lifts out his cock. Leila weighs it in her hand, grins up at him. "Would she kiss you here, like I do?"

Jaffar's only answer is a loud moan as Leila takes him into her mouth. Yassamin suffocates a scream into her own hand: she cannot hold her release back any longer, her cunny pulsing against her hand, her hips grinding violently as she shudders against the windowframe. On and on, the waves of shock, of pleasure rock through her, leaving every hair on her body standing on end: at each of Leila's sucks, her body jerks in time with Jaffar's. 

Still trembling from her orgasm, Yassamin stares at Jaffar's cock, not at all like the ones she's seen in love manuals: it's not pale but flushed, a pomegranate red, so thick Leila can't take it very deep into her mouth. Leila lets out little choking noises, swats Jaffar's hand away when he tries to stop her, only coming up for breath. When she does, the wide, fat head of his cock gleams, dripping with her saliva, glistening, and another shudder goes through Yassamin's body. How could a woman ever take such a thing inside of herself, if it cannot even be held in one's mouth? He's not a man but an animal, and perhaps this is why he has preferred slave girls; perhaps they are the only ones who can take something of that size. For it is clear they adore his cock: now Noor joins Leila in sucking, lapping at its shaft, at Jaffar's sack as Leila continues to mouth the head. 

Jaffar groans louder and louder, his sounds not those of a master of slaves, but of a man tortured. Yes, it is as if he is the victim, the one being ravished, victim to the girls' lusts. Inside her mind, Yassamin laughs a little hysterically--she almost feels pity for him; yes, pity instead of revulsion. 

With a growl, he grabs both girls by the hair. "Stop. Both of you. I order you to stop."

The girls toss and hiss, wincing in pain as he tears at their hair, pulling them off his cock. "Why are you saving yourself for her, master?" Noor cries, extricating herself.

Leila pulls back, too, staring at Jaffar angrily. "You could have any woman you wanted. What's wrong with us? We're better at this than she could ever be."

Noor wipes saliva from her chin. "Yes. And she might never love you."

At that, Jaffar grabs Noor's hair with both hands, lifting her up until she screams in agony. He shakes her, snarls in her face. "One more word about her and I shall sell both of you to the cheapest brothel in Baghdad." He tosses Noor onto the bed and glares at both girls, roaring in his rage. "Is that understood?" 

Leila nods, resigned; Noor bursts into tears. "You are a cruel master," she whimpers.

Jaffar looks at her and begins to tuck his cock back into his shalwars, then thinks better of it. "I would not have you call me cruel," he murmurs. He sighs, then seats himself on the cushions, leaning back against the hull of the ship. For a moment, he looks vulnerable again, rumpled, his cock still erect and wet, but now it is he who has made himself into a victim, a victim of his own love-madness. He had said he had become blind to other women, but clearly, his body hasn't, and it is now warring with his heart. For a moment, it looks as if he is about to give in, to take the girls after all.

"No," he sighs, finally. He brings his hand to his cock and strokes it softly. "Never let it be said I am cruel to my women." He looks at Noor, then Leila. "Comfort her. The way you did before."

Noor looks up, wiping tears from her eyes. "Master?" 

"You are entertainers, are you not?" he smirks, warmer, now. "Now, _entertain_ me. I shall be content to watch."

Yassamin suffocates an incredulous moan. The nerve of the man! He would save himself for her, yet still feast upon the girls with his eyes, the old goat? Leila and Noor are equally baffled at first, but then exchange amused glances and settle into an embrace. Only this time, their movements are longer, softer, more languid because they have an audience to please. Jaffar knows exactly where the greatest weakness of a courtesan lies: the artistic pride she takes in performing the dances of love. And now he is manipulating that weakness to the fullest. Noor and Leila are clearly eager to show him what they are made of as they attack each other furiously, becoming but writhing limbs, trembling flesh, low moans and deep kisses upon the bed. 

And now he himself settles back against his cushions, smirking as he watches the girls at play. He is a strange man, Yassamin muses, strange and perverse. The girls are right: he could have any woman he wanted, yet he denies himself the most passionate, the most skilled women in the land for the sake of someone who does not return his love? Perhaps that is, indeed, his perversion--perhaps he is one of those twisted creatures who enjoy being tortured, teased, denied; perhaps he's the sort of man who derives more pleasure from being whipped rather than kissed.

Yet the very play unfolding before her eyes convinces her of the fact that he's an animal, a greedy animal when it comes to the pleasures of the flesh. He licks his lips as he watches the girls, panting like some wild beast, leaving his mouth open in that disgusting way that makes shivers run down her spine. And his monstrous prick--oh, she cannot bear to look at it, so she moves her gaze to the girls instead. 

Noor's sobs have, by now, turned into those of pleasure, her face wet from sweat rather than tears. Leila massages her sides and her belly with her hands, kneads at her muscles, kissing her cunny so softly Noor's hips lift off the bed. "Please," Noor cries, clutching at her own breasts. "Please, more."

Leila but chuckles into her cunny, making Noor jerk in her arms.

"You learned that from me," Jaffar drawls. 

Leila lifts her face and licks her lips. "Halima, actually."

Jaffar hisses through his teeth, then shakes his head. "Continue."

Leila gives Noor's cunny a long lick, another, then slides on top of her, rutting her hips between Noor's legs. She laughs and caresses Noor's hair, offering her the taste of her cunny from her lips. "Should I take you like the master does?" she smirks.

"Please."

"Mmm-hmm," Leila murmurs. 

That murmur is such a perfect imitation of Jaffar himself that he rocks a little on the bed, sighing in narcissistic delight. "That's better," he purrs and slides his palm over the head of his cock. 

Leila sucks on her thumb and brings it between Noor's buttocks. Yassamin cannot see clearly, but from the way Noor now cries out, twists, it is clear it's not her cunny Leila is sinking her thumb into. Yassamin gasps, her own anus clenching in sympathy, yet the contraction sends a shiver of sickening delight up her spine. Noor pants in shock, clutching at the cushions, her breath catching in her throat.

"Now, _that_ is one of mine, my sweet," Jaffar leers at Noor. "I'm not going to fuck you there, but she might. Would you like her to?" He is now so aroused his own breath is coming faster, in little huffs. Even from her hiding place, Yassamin can see his cock is dripping with clear fluid: she did not even know a man's body was capable of such a thing, becoming as wet as a woman. And now, Jaffar spreads that fluid all over his cock, his balls and groans in delight as Noor writhes on the bed under Leila's assault.

Noor throws her head back, her thighs clutching at Leila's head. "Please. Please, master. Please take me there, please--"

"It is your favourite, is it not?" Jaffar grins, lifting to his knees, spreading Noor's legs to see what Leila is doing, exposing Noor to Yassamin's gaze without knowing it. "Give her as many fingers as you can," he tells Leila, kisses her on the cheek, then turns back to Noor. He strokes his cock and waits for Noor to open her eyes, then smiles at her. "I want you to think of this, my child," he murmurs, casting his lashes down, lifting his cock out for her to see. 

Noor looks up at him and wails, wails as Leila slickens two, three of her fingers in her cunny and then starts pushing them inside her arse. "Master--"

"Good girl," Jaffar croons, leaning over Noor. "Good girl. You always did like a fat prick up there, didn't you?" he continues, stoking her heat with his words the way Leila now strokes her inside with her fingers. "More than you ever liked it in your cunny?"

"Yes!" Noor tries to reach for him, clutching at his arms.

Jaffar but glances at Leila. "Faster. She's close."

Leila shifts on the bed and Yassamin can see Leila's own cunny now, beading, dripping with her own arousal. Leila does as she's told, moving her hand inside Noor faster, fucking her with such brutality Noor thrashes helplessly, gasping into Jaffar's face. When Leila buries her mouth into Noor's cunny again, Noor screams; Jaffar pins her arms down onto the bed and stares at her feverishly. "Are you going to come for me?"

"Master--!"

"Give her four," Jaffar barks, never taking his eyes off Noor. "Harder."

Leila does, and Noor's eyes snap wide open; she jerks on the bed, her thighs trembling around Leila's head. Her teeth chatter; a low, low moan emerges from her throat, yet Jaffar keeps staring at her. "I asked you a question. Are you going to come for me, my sweet?"

"Yes, master--" and Noor's voice breaks into howls, wails, a string of helpless noises every time Leila thrusts her hand inside. Noor's eyes roll back in her head and she is gone: she screams from the bottom of her lungs and convulses, shudders underneath Jaffar. She keeps on trembling, shaking, letting out more noises as Jaffar nuzzles her face, as Leila keeps caressing her with her fingers and her mouth. 

Slowly, Leila's touches grow slower, gentler as they pull Noor out of her orgasm. Noor stares and shivers upon the bed, and Jaffar but smiles. "Now, then," he murmurs against Noor's cheek. "Am I such a cruel master?" he asks, kissing her softly, caressing her hair.

"No," Noor gasps. "You are the greatest master a woman could ever have."

With one last kiss, Jaffar lets her head loll onto the pillows, then pets Leila's hair in turn. "I'll leave you two to it."

Leila glances at his cock. "But you haven't--"

He tucks himself inside his shalwars and kisses her in turn. "Just make sure Noor pays you back in full measure, my child. Good night."

"Good night," Leila says, baffled as Jaffar leaves their cabin.

"Good night," Yassamin murmurs to herself, baffled herself. She turns and sits there, barely listening as the girls continue to make love, Leila's noises now louder as Noor pleasures her in turn. She does not know what to think. She'd expected Jaffar to--well. He certainly did not behave in any of the ways she had expected him to. He was some twisted mixture of the ascetic and the lech, both and neither at once. Where is he now, she wonders? Relieving himself somewhere? Thinking of _her_ instead? 

Behind the window, Leila wails in ecstasy and that wail now sends another pulse of heat to Yassamin's cunny. She tries not to think of Jaffar, but how could she not? Biting her lip, she retires to bed and slips her hand between her legs again. She listens to the girls, listens to them intently, but it is of no use; she cannot erase the memory of Jaffar. All she can see at the moment of her release is Jaffar's cock; hard, red, shining, reserved for her and her only. She convulses on her hand, suffocates her scream into her pillow and hates herself, hates herself.


	2. Chapter 2

"It's medicinal," he grins and fills her cup once more.

"Then drink with me?" she asks. He is far too sober, far too keen, his eyes far too sharp. She would the wine softened them a little. 

"Oh, no. I never drink more than one cupful in the company of a lady," he says, shaking his head. 

"Why? Does it make your behaviour even less courteous?" she quips over the brim of her own cup. The wine is making her bolder and she does not care: if she is to be his prisoner, she might as well make him pay.

He raises his eyebrow--to her annoyance, he seems more charmed than anything else. "Because of what the Christians would call brewer's droop," he says, smiling mischievously. "Although I am not sure a virgin would be familiar with such concepts."

She blushes. "I am not as innocent as you think me, my lord," she murmurs, laughing a little nervously. "I have read the odd love manual, you know."

"I have _memorised_ over a dozen," he drawls, then nudges her with his elbow. "Go on, then. Which one is your favourite?"

Oh, God. She stares at her cup, swirling the wine in it. "The Book of the Red Flowers," she mumbles.

He leans over her shoulder; his grin is so wide she can see its reflection flashing in her wine. 

_"Poor is the man who does not know how to satisfy a woman,"_ he quotes. _"For a woman's body is capable of experiencing more pleasure than a man's; Tiresias knew this. And when loved right, a woman will share this pleasure with her man in turn, enveloping him in her passion. Thus, the wise man seeks to ignite this passion in his woman, to fan its flames until he, too, is consumed by its heat."_

She shivers, now, thinking of the illustration facing that very page: a naked couple entwined, the man and the woman staring into each other's eyes with utmost devotion. The bright golden and red pillows had formed haloes around the couple's heads, she'd always thought; making them look like some heathen deities, radiant from their lust. And the way the woman had spread her legs underneath the man, the slit between her legs painted pink and red, opening to take the him in--

He notices her discomfort and shifts a little on the cushions, moving away from her, having made his impact. "It is advice I have certainly found useful. That, and the part about not forcing all your wives to live under the same roof, if you can only afford it."

She starts, dizzy from the wine, realising she'd never thought of him as a husband. The very idea seems ludicrous, and she cannot hold back a laugh. "What sort of women would marry _you?_ "

Breezily, he ignores her barbs and takes a sip of his wine. "Oh, ones from very good families, all eager to ally themselves with the Barmakids. All gone now, of course; all thanks to Harun the _Rightly Guided,_ " he snaps, suddenly colder. "I'll tell you about them sometime."

She knows of the legends, and the legends are exactly what make her fear him so: it is said that Harun's slaughter of his family was what had made Jaffar take up black magic in the first place, had made the wisest and kindest man in all of Persia turn tyrant, torturer, executioner.

She glances at him, but he does not meet her gaze: now he is the one staring into his cup. Nevertheless, her curiosity has been stirred. "Do you want to tell me now?" 

"Not in particular." He empties his cup, holds it in his hands, then glances at her, serious. "But know that I treated my wives well. I would never accept a bride under fourteen, would never force a girl to lie with me against her will."

The devil in her wants to say something sarcastic back at him, but even through the wine, she senses this would not be wise. He seems less lecherous now, more quiet, sincere. Despite everything, she realises that she pities him more than she hates him. He, however, but keeps staring at her. Therefore, it seems best to move on, to take the conversation elsewhere.

"My father said he'd drown me if I wasn't a mother by sixteen," she says, sipping from her cup. "And here I am, still alive and a maiden at seventeen. I refused every man that asked for my hand, you see."

His eyes widen with mirth. "Well, now. Should I be relieved, if that was indeed your response to everyone and not just me?"

"No, Jaffar." She smirks, the devil in her awakening once more. "You were _particularly_ hideous."

"You little liar." He pokes her in the ribs until she shrieks, yelps, struggling not to spill her wine. "Stop!" she screams, laughs.

He stops tickling her, leaning past her to set her cup down on the floor. Yet, he does not get up from his position. They are both panting, now, he leaning over her on the cushions, so close to her she can feel the heat of his breath on her face, the sweetness of wine and herbs upon it. She does not push him away, even if a part of her wants her to. Heady from laughter, from wine, she stares into the vast blue of his eyes and no, she does not find him so hideous after all. This must be why wine is forbidden, she thinks and curses in her mind: it makes her hate him less, makes her heart leap a little as the corners of his eyes crinkle from his smile. 

He strokes her cheek with the backs of his fingers, his voice warm, sweet. "What manner of a man would have satisfied you, my lady? Perhaps I could conjure one up for you."

"Can you conjure up a djinni?" she blurts, regretting the words as soon as they leave her mouth.

He sets his hands on either side of her face, laughs incredulously. "You wanted a _djinni_ for a husband?"

She plays with the buttons of her jacket. "Don't mock me, Jaffar. There was one in my garden, one who had always watched over me. It was he I was going to marry, I thought. And when Ahmad came, I thought he was the djinni, finally come to--" 

She shouldn't have told him. Damn the wine, damn it to Hell. She pushes Jaffar away and curls up on the cushions in a fetal position, hugging her knees. She has already revealed too much. Now that her phantasms have gone, the world itself feels cold, bleak, miserable. In Jaffar's house, she had been asleep for weeks, not knowing the difference between dream and reality. Yet, now, she wonders if she has been asleep all her life and is only now awakening, awakening into the cold gray morning of truth.

Jaffar curls up behind her, his hand soft on her shoulder. "Tell me about this djinni."

"I don't want to."

It simply hurts too much. Her own stupidity hurts so much; that she would fashion herself a man from the caresses of leaves upon her hair, from an odd star that twinkled brighter than the rest, from whispers she had thought she'd heard upon the wind. She has been wasting her years chasing ghosts, inventing them to satisfy her own twisted desires. Perhaps she was born mad, cursed. The wine and the rocking of the ship now make her stomach lurch with sickness; she hugs herself tighter and wipes her sweaty brow into the velvet of the cushions.

"Leave me alone," she mumbles from between chattering teeth.

"As you wish, my lady." 

Quietly, tenderly, Jaffar lifts her hair and kisses the nape of her neck. 

Startled, she turns around, but he is already gone.

***

"Yassamin," he calls out into the night, "Yassamin, Yassamin." 

He had not meant for her to hear this, yet she does, pausing outside his cabin door. He must be fast asleep, she thinks, to call out for her so, with such desperate fervour. His voice is most definitely not that of a king, of a powerful sorcerer, but that of a hopeful youth.

His moans grow louder, more pained. She peeks through the door, wondering if she should wake him up--such agitation could be dangerous to a man approaching fifty. Or at least that's the excuse she gives herself as she slips into the cabin, drawn to Jaffar by the threads of his voice, by his repetition of her name. On and on he calls out to her and each time, she takes a step closer to the bed, like a heathen goddess summoned by her worshipper.

He turns onto his back and she starts, thinking he has woken up. Yet his eyes remain closed, his lips moving without a sound. He seems fine, but she cannot tear herself away, no, not now. She steadies herself against the mast beside the bed, but it is not the rocking of the ship that now makes her stagger so. 

No, it is the sight of Jaffar, naked under sheets pulled low around his hips that now makes her heartbeat quicken. He has extinguished the lamps, but by the waxing moon's light, she can see him clearly, see every contour of his body. And now that he is asleep, she can keep on looking at him the way she never could on the day he'd rescued her. She feels like a sinner, a thief for stealing this look, but where's the harm in it, if he will never know? 

For she is curious. 

Thus, she devours him--the man she hates--with her eyes. The way his chest rises and falls with his breathing, the flexing of the long, lean muscles of his limbs, the way his stomach dips, quivers as he twists upon the bed. The skin of his belly, how soft it seems--she finds her lips parting, her mouth wetting. She scolds herself for her stirring, but her entire body is flushed and her heart is pounding, even more so than it had when she had been watching him with the girls. 

Perhaps it is because he looks less threatening, now; perhaps it is some perverse delight she takes in the knowledge that all she now sees is _hers_. All of this flesh, laid out for her in sacrifice, yearning for her touch. All of this desire, a desire so powerful it tortures him day and night, for her and her only.

Jaffar mumbles in his sleep, twists once more. He pats at himself and quickly, she hides behind the mast in case he should awaken. But he's still fast asleep: he nudges, brushes at himself as if swatting off insects, squirming where he lies. He spreads his legs and there, there, the sheet slips down, revealing the short-cropped black hair of his groin. And lower still, his cock, half-hard, lying nestled in the curve between hip and thigh. Such wide hips he's got, such thin thighs, and the prick that had so frightened her now looks soft, vulnerable. He groans in his sleep, his fingers brushing against the root of his cock, a little glimmer of wetness beading at its tip. 

"Yassamin," he whispers, and this time, it is not a plea. It is the sound of fulfillment, of awe, his voice shot through with utter joy. His lips tremble, curve into a smile; his cock stirs a little upon his thigh. In astonishment, she stares as his lips kiss the air as if she were really there, on top of him, taking his mouth again and again. "You came," he whispers between kisses; "You came," he laughs. 

No. It's too real; surely he is playing tricks on her. He sounds too awake, too conscious. Panic wells up inside her and swiftly, she tears herself away and slips out of the cabin. Yet she lingers behind the door, staring through its window, watching him. And still, he continues his play--no, he _must_ be asleep; why would he continue to play to an empty room?

"Yassamin," he whispers again, now pained, rocking on the bed faster and faster, as if he was being ridden by a demoness, not a lover. The invisible Yassamin seems to be crushing him into the bed; he spreads his arms, his legs as if they were being pinned to the sheets. He groans from the bottom of his lungs, now, sobbing as his hips undulate, seemingly against his will, his cock now fully hard against his stomach, slapping against it with his movements. With one last agonised wail, his entire body jerks and he ejaculates onto his stomach, spraying it with white. 

Yassamin clasps her hand over her mouth. She knew Jaffar loved her, but she had no idea--and now he is fully awake, cursing as he wipes his stomach. He fumbles there for a while, then stills, hunched on the bed. A soft, high noise pierces the silence and she realises it emanates from him: Jaffar, the king of kings, ruler of all Persia is weeping. He wipes his hand on the sheets and covers his mouth with it, just as Yassamin does now, to disguise the noise he is making. Even from the corridor, she can see he is pressing his hand against his mouth with violent force, his entire face contorted from pain as he sobs and sobs. He curls up upon the bed and muffles his noises further by drawing the bedcovers around himself, so that Yassamin can no longer see him. 

Her hand lingers upon the latch of the door, but she cannot open it. And even if she did have the courage to go to him, she would not know what to do, what to say to him. He is broken, he is furious; what if he should lash out at her, thinking her the demoness of his dreams? _Is_ she a demoness to him, some cruel torturer? She does not know what to think, does not know whether she hates him, loves him, but she knows that she would not have him suffer for her sake. 

Yet she is a coward, and lets go of the latch.

***

Every morning, if the weather allows it, she spends some time on deck. This morning, the sky is clear, yet the atmosphere is full of foul vapours--this time, the ship's crew are the ones venting their anger at Jaffar behind his back. Only a few feet away from her, the grizzly old helmsman is trying to calm down an enraged sailor, after the latter has heard they are to continue their circular course. 

"He's paid you your wages, Hamid. Get back to work."

"And what if I don't? It's madness, if you ask me. Sailing round and round the Arabian Sea until we're dizzy. What's he playing at, huh?" Hamid edges closer to the helmsman, using his large bulk to intimidate him. "'ere. How do you know he is not about to feed us to some giant sea serpent?"

The helmsman shakes his head, resigned. "It's not our place to question the master. Would you wish his wrath upon yourself? Somehow I think being devoured by a giant serpent would be preferable."

Hamid spits and bunches his hands into fists. "Either way, we're cursed. This is the last time I'm setting foot on a sorcerer's ship, whether he be the shah of all Persia or not."

Hamid storms off in a huff, and the helmsman mutters under his breath. "I can't tell you how glad I am to hear that."

"I heard that," Hamid growls, then notices Yassamin. He looks at her up and down as if trying to see her face and her chest through her veil, his gaze lingering for so long she draws her cloak tighter about herself. Hamid but scoffs. "And the less said about the wisdom of bringing women on board, the better." 

"Hamid!" the helmsman barks. "Get back to your position or I'll have you flayed."

Hamid ignores him and leers at Yassamin instead. "What does he need so many girls for, eh? Is it cunny he gets his powers from?" His breath stinks; he's been drinking. "Pretty little things like you bouncing up and down on his prick all night?"

Hamid reaches for her veil, but the helmsman cracks his whip. "Hamid!" 

Finally, Hamid withdraws, grumbling. "All right." He shoots both of them a glare. "But we're all cursed, I tell you. Mark my words."

Shuddering with disgust, Yassamin withdraws to her cabin. 

***

She's too scared to go on deck now, and this makes her feel even more of a prisoner. She curls up on her bed and within her mind, she recites holy verses from memory to calm herself down. Yet she falters, the words of one sura mixing with another's until the words of angels become but a jumble inside her head. She is not sure if she can withstand this--this waiting, this pointless stagnation, this constant strain for much longer. Is Jaffar trying to tire her out? She has been wondering about this for many days now. If she yielded to him, would they finally return home? She misses her garden, she misses the palace baths, misses curling up in bed with her cats. Would sharing his bed be such an awful price to pay?

But those are the thoughts of a prostitute, she thinks. A woman who's abandoned her morals and sold herself. Yet, does anyone in Basra or Baghdad, or indeed all of Persia think her to be anything else? She clutches at the sheets and groans into her pillow. Why is she still resisting? Out of sheer stubbornness? It's as if the part of her that has always been a fool insists on clinging to that foolishness until it kills her. 

Or someone else. Everyone on board the ship is restless. What if there should be a mutiny? Would it be her fault? Soon, the entire ship will be a madhouse with sails. She has to talk to Jaffar, she has to. 

***

Later that night, Jaffar comes to fetch her for dinner. "Why aren't you coming?" he asks, hovering at her door. "I've arranged for wine and music."

"I'm not hungry."

"Come." He kneels by her bed and takes her hand, kisses it. "You look pale. I would not have my wife starve to death."

She retrieves her hand and casts her eyes down. "If I was indeed dying, would you then take me back to Basra?"

He winces. "Don't say things like that."

"You started it." She looks up, searching his eyes. "If I am your wife, it is my right to know why we're still at sea."

"Perhaps I like the scenery."

She groans. "Jaffar, I--"

There's a knock on the door. "Master? Dinner is served."

Jaffar practically drags her out of bed. "Come."

Thus, she is persuaded to leave her cabin once more. Jaffar has had a section of the deck canopied so that they are screened from the eyes of the sailors, and this calms her down a little. The dinner isn't exactly magnificent; dried fish rarely is. Yet, there's still some fruit left, and plenty enough spices to make the food palatable. She sits beside Jaffar, yearning to speak to him in private, but the entertainments he's arranged for them make it impossible. The dinner drags on as the slave girls sing, dance and recite poems for them, telling stories long into the night.

There's still plenty of wine left, too, and she definitely needs it to relax, now--by the time it's completely dark, she finds herself slouching. She is sure she cannot stay up for much longer, but right now, she has more urgent needs to attend to: she needs to go and empty her bladder. She excuses herself and leaves for her cabin, staggering a little from the wine and the rocking of the ship. She swears in a most unladylike manner as she tries to balance herself on the chamberpot, but somehow she succeeds in her mission. She continues to swear in the corridor--to her dismay, she finds it's much more difficult to tie up the laces of one's shalwars while drunk.

"Do you need a hand with that?" Hamid chuckles at her.

"Mind your own business," she snaps and hurries up the stairs.

Yet, Hamid is faster: only her head and shoulders are above deck when he slaps his hand over her mouth and pulls her against his body. Panic explodes inside her and she cries out, kicks, claws at him. Hamid smells of wine again; he must be even more drunk than she is. She screams into his hand, screams for Jaffar, yet it is of no use: Hamid grabs her veil, the silk tearing as he yanks it off her head. 

"Let's have a look at you."

She squeezes her eyes shut and screams, screams again from the bottom of her lungs, but his hand suffocates her completely. This is what her stubbornness got her, she thinks, her heart about to burst out of her chest as she struggles in vain: her stupid, stupid stubbornness. Raped in the innards of a stinking ship; was this truly preferable to a man who actually loved her? Hysterical, she claws at Hamid's face, marking it; even if he killed her now, Jaffar would know it was Hamid from the marks she's left on his face, oh, God, oh, merciful God--

She scratches Hamid's eyes and he yowls, letting go of her for a split second. It's then that she lunges for the deck, screaming, panting, shrieking in her terror, but the music drowns her out. Hamid grabs her by the legs, ripping off her shalwars, shoving his hand between her legs, pushing his fingers inside her cunny. 

No. _No._ In shock, she freezes, unable to speak, unable to scream, her entire body falling cold and limp from the violence of the intrusion. Hamid keeps pushing his fingers inside her, chortling wetly, spreading her legs. "Not such a proud little princess any more, are you?"

"That's _my wife_ you are talking to."

The fingers slide out of her; she thinks she will faint. Hands drag her onto the deck, pull her clothes back on. She slumps on the deck, covered in cold sweat, shaking, jerking. In seconds, she is retching on the deck, unable to stop spasming, coughing in a puddle of her own vomit. From the distance, she can hear the sounds of men struggling. With shaking hands, she tries to wipe her face, tries to look up, her vision blurred from nausea. 

In the middle of the deck, Hamid lies at Jaffar's feet, wiping blood from his mouth. Jaffar stands before him, as still as a statue, his eyes full of cold fury the like of which she's never seen before. Jaffar looks even taller, now, his eyes those of a madman, unnaturally wide, glowing; he is enormous, seeming to grow and grow, swallowing Hamid with his shadow. A gust of wind stirs Jaffar's cloak, the tails of his turban, whips up his sleeve as he extends his hand towards Hamid. Jaffar never touches him, yet Hamid cries out and the wind grows wilder, howling, the canopy crashing down onto the deck from the gale: the girls run, shrieking, grabbing at their veils, scrabbling for their scattered instruments.

Jaffar clutches at the air with his hand, his fingers but bent, twisted claws. His voice is quiet, calm, low. "You shall never harm a woman again." 

He flicks his wrist, folds his hand into a fist and _squeezes._

Hamid clutches at his groin and screams, curling up in agony. Jaffar keeps on squeezing, his knuckles white: Hamid's howls turn into shrieks, and now it is he who is retching, covered in cold sweat, his face blue and white from shock, his eyes bulging out of his head. He falls quiet, trembles, his hands still between his legs; Jaffar keeps his hand in a fist for long moments, then flicks his wrist once more.

Hamid falls limp and the wind stills, gone as swiftly as it had arrived.

Yassamin's eyes roll back in her head and she can see no more.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant to this chapter: [Persian metal talismans,](http://aikainkauna.tumblr.com/post/148025170923/persian-talismans-engraved-on-copper-plates-with) used for various magical purposes.

It is morning when she wakes up, this time in Jaffar's cabin. She has a monstrous headache; her throat is raw from vomiting, and the pain sends her coughing. 

It is then that she notices Jaffar is standing beside her bed; he has probably been standing there for quite some time. He hands her a cup of cold water. "Here." 

She cannot even thank him for her coughing, at first. She sits and drinks; he watches her in silence. And in that silence, she realises he looks different: it's as if a glamour has fallen off him. He seems less imposing, more fragile, his thinness more obvious now as he leans against the mast, his back bent like that of a much older man. There are dark circles under his eyes and his breathing is so heavy and strained she can hear it. The realisation of this awakens her faster than the water does, and soon, she is on her feet, helping him stand up.

"Jaffar. What's wrong?"

"Don't." Jaffar raises his hand.

He needn't answer. She already knows: every magician has to use up some of his own life force whenever he casts a spell, however minor. It can't be anything else; he looks drained of life itself. Despite his protests, she puts an arm around him and leads him to sit beside her on the bed.

He is flustered, staring at his shaking hands, panting a little still. "I wasn't going to let you see me like this."

"Hush. Stay there." She makes her way to the door. "Leila?"

"Yes, mistress?"

"Bring some boiling water, ginger and honey, will you? And some rosemary, if you have any."

"I'm fine," Jaffar grumbles. He tries to get up, but it's a windy day, and the rocking of the ship makes him stagger. With a groan, he slumps back onto the mattress.

"Don't worry," Yassamin says, taking his hands in hers, smiling. "I won't let her inside the cabin. She'll think the tea is just for seasickness, or for the effects of the wine last night."

He rubs her hands with his thumbs, not looking up at her. "Really, it's nothing. Tomorrow, I'll be fine."

She cannot help but be amused--he's still squirming, so embarrassed, his masculine pride in tatters. For a brief second, the devil in her thinks of mocking him, but decides to save even the friendliest of insults for later. 

On an impulse, she kisses his cheek instead. "Thank you. For last night, I mean."

Jaffar looks at her askance, a little smile playing at the corners of his eyes. It is then that Leila arrives with the water and the herbs. Yassamin sends her off and sets about brewing her tea: carefully, she cuts and measures ginger and honey into two cups and lets them steep for a long while. "My father's favourite restorative," she says and glances at Jaffar over her shoulder. "Simple, but never fails."

Jaffar laughs, a little incredulously. "I'll humour you."

She cannot help but smile back at him. "That makes you a very wise husband indeed."

Jaffar looks at his hands again. "Don't jest. After last night, I would be a monster to touch you."

She does not know what to answer. Nausea curls in her stomach at the memory of Hamid; yet she feels a twinge of panic beside it, as if Jaffar was now rejecting her somehow. Just when Fate has forced her to realise how much she does, indeed, need Jaffar. Where would she be without his protection, now? It doesn't bear thinking about. She wants to tell him this, wants to apologise, but the words stick in her throat. Quietly, she offers him his cup and sits beside him, trying very hard not to cry.

He cradles the cup in his hands and looks at her. "The state I saw you in last night," he says, his voice thin, creaking a little. "It was exactly what I had wanted to protect you from; it was lifted straight out of my worst nightmares." Now, his hands are trembling so that the tea spills over onto his fingers, but he does not care. "I'd seen slave girls like that," he whispers. "Their bodies broken by men, their souls frozen from horror, suspended in a state of living death. I had sworn to never force myself upon a woman, least of all you, I--" he chokes, the cup falling from his hands and clattering upon the floor. He covers his face with his hands. "And now I--I am responsible." He draws in a heaving breath and makes the most horrid, pained noise, a noise more animal than human. "I am sorry, Yassamin. I am so, so sorry."

"Jaffar." She takes his wrists and pulls his hands off his face. His palms are wet with tears and stained black from his kohl, streaks of it running down his face. She's never seen him this shaken, and what hurts her the most is that it is her fault. _When did she start caring for him?_ a voice inside her asks. _When did she start caring whether he lived or died?_ that voice now mocks her. "Jaffar, I would not have you weep for me."

He wipes his eyes on his sleeve, sniffing a little. "Then what would you have me do? I was a beast, I admit it. I was going to take you back to Basra the day you yielded to me; I am sure you knew it all along. But now, I--I might as well take you home now. Back to your father, where you belong."

A cold sliver of fear cuts through her. "Don't I have any say in the matter?"

He looks at her, swallowing, baffled. "You _do_ want to go home, don't you?"

That cold fear inside her expands, expands until her entire torso prickles with it, freezes with it. "I understand," she says, her jaw stiffening in horror. "You think he has ruined me, soiled me, damaged your property. You think I'm no longer a virgin. No longer fit for you to claim."

"No!" he exclaims in shock. He shakes his head, clasping her hands. "No. It's only that I don't want to hurt you, to add to your pain. Not after what he's done. I would rather be savaged by tigers than hurt you." 

"Jaffar?"

He squeezes her fingers. "Yes?"

"You are a fool."

"Perhaps." He laughs, nervously.

"What makes you think--" she casts her eyes down, laughing herself, a little hysterical, now. "What makes you think your love would _add_ to the pain? Rather than--"

She can hear his breath catching in his throat, see a new light sparking in his eyes. "What are you trying to say?" he murmurs. Yet he knows, must know from the way his entire being awakens, now, to joy instead of sorrow. In his fatigued state, he has less control over his expressions: he cannot keep the corners of his mouth from twitching up in a smile.

She is about to answer when Jaffar's eyes fly wide open. He stares past her shoulder, at the door. He squeezes her hand and blanches. _"No."  
_

She groans. "Leila, I told you not to--"

But as she turns around, there's no one in the doorway. Jaffar's grip on her wrist is painful, now; his breath coming in short snaps. He shakes his head. "Not now. Not now." He lets go of her, now ashen, balancing himself on his hands, the veins on his temples swollen from agitation.

"Jaffar! What is it?" She puts her arms around him, helping him sit up. He gasps; it's clear he is trying to say something, but hunches over in pain instead. "Jaffar!" She tries to keep him still but he convulses, slouching in her arms. "What's wrong?" she cries, untying the turban from around his head to ease his breathing. "Please, Jaffar. Please say something." 

With shaking hands, he reaches inside his robe and pulls out a metal plate attached to a cord around his neck. It's a small bronze tablet covered in diagrams and sigils; he presses it into her palm. He squeezes her hand so hard the edges of the tablet cut into her palm; he stares at her, pleading. His lips quiver and again, he tries to say something, but the strain is too much: he collapses in her arms.

"Jaffar!" She pats at his face, but he is unconscious. "Jaffar!"

In panic, she looks at the tablet in her hand. What had he been trying to say? The engravings make it clear that this is a magical amulet--the sort someone would wear for protection, for strength. Was this what had made his spells possible? Was this the source he drew his power from? Or had he worn it as a safeguard so as not to exhaust himself completely--and now, for some reason, its magic had failed him? 

But why give it to her? Does he want her to cast a spell herself, to invoke something in the tablet to fix whatever had gone wrong? She is no magician; how on earth could she do anything of the sort? She is at a loss, but she has to try something, has to try and understand.

At first, the tablet looks like a mixture of prayers, entangled within circles and triangles and stars; most of the engravings seem to have been written in some sort of cipher. Yet, as she stares at the tablet, she realises she finds the code familiar: it is not unlike the one her mother had used in her letters. It was so long ago she can barely remember it, but she can pick up a word here, a word there. Some of the words look like the sequence a person's name would take, some seem to be names of body parts, some those of physical qualities--like an anatomical chart. Yet, she does not even know where to start. The only one who can help her now is Jaffar. He is still breathing but unconscious, his head lolling in her lap.

"Jaffar. Please, please wake up. Only for a little while." She caresses his cheek. "I'm here; I want to help you. But what is it that you need me to do? Can you hear me, Jaffar?" Despite herself, she chokes a little. "Please." 

He breathes but shallowly; he does not respond. Yet he does not seem to be in such great pain, now: he is no longer trembling, the cold sweat on his skin has dried and he seems to have fallen into a trance of sorts. That gives her a little hope, at least. Once again, she looks at the tablet, turning it over in her hands. 

It's then that she realises parts of the amulet are distinctly cold, some much warmer: some of the words seem so worn out she can barely read them. She feels for the words and it is as she'd suspected: the colder parts correspond to the worn-out parts. She thinks feverishly, looking for explanations--logic would suggest that the damaged parts would also correspond to whatever it is in Jaffar that is now weakening and ill. Do certain spells wear out certain parts of a magician's soul, his body more than others? She's heard of fakirs, of mystics concentrating all their energy into a specific body part for a spell, or being able to numb their bodies entirely in order to withstand pain that would kill an ordinary human being. And she knows different organs, different vital fluids are the seats of different emotions and mental powers, so is this the key she is looking for?

She runs her fingers over the coldest, most faded spots and squints at them. Two of them are placed close together: at the very centre of the tablet lies the word representing "heart"--that, at least, she recognises from her mother's letters. A little below it lies not a word but an uneven rectangle reminiscent of how the liver is rendered in medical manuals. The liver is the seat of both love and violent rage, of anger; the heart likewise. Thus, she knows herself to be right: Jaffar must have exhausted himself of both emotions and thus, his heart and his liver when cursing Hamid last night. 

But she's seen him use magic before--how easily he'd controlled the flying horse, how he'd put the slavers to sleep when he'd rescued her! But now, she clasps her hand over her mouth and suffocates a sob. That he should have become so agitated for her that he'd lost control of his senses, that Jaffar the lover's rage would have overwhelmed even Jaffar the sorcerer, that he had pushed himself near death to rescue her. The most powerful magician in all of Persia, driven so mad because of his love for her, his need to protect her--

She holds Jaffar's head in her lap and struggles not to cry. "You _idiot._ " 

She brushes his hair away from his face, stroking his temples with a tenderness she did not know she possessed. It is only now that she thinks she is losing him that she realises she finds her idiot beautiful, his features searing into her mind as if to remind her of him when he's gone. The sharpness of his cheekbones, the bold straight line of his nose, his lashes so long against his cheeks, wet from cold sweat. This idiot loves her more than he loves his own life and is now _dying_ for her, dying because she's been a fool. They're mad, both of them, she no better than him; she had been right, they were a suitable match after all. She curses herself for leaving everything so late, perhaps too late. 

But no, no, she should not mourn him yet, for he still breathes; nor should she merely sit here and roll around in self-pity. She must do something. Perhaps if she--she starts patting herself, Jaffar, looking for something sharp, metallic. There. His turban ornament. She takes its pin and lays it upon the centre of the tablet, for does the heart not feed the liver, too? Thus, she now starts to re-engrave the faded word into the tablet. _Heart,_ she writes over and over, _heart_. 

And as she writes, she prays, focuses her entire being, her entire will upon the pin, upon the tablet, upon Jaffar. She's only guessing, improvising; she does not know the spells and incantations of high magic, only a few remedial prayers and healing rhymes. She feels like an utter madwoman at first as she finds her lips repeating those prayers--every single one she can remember--but she must have faith. 

Faith. And what is God's greatest quality? Mercy. _Mercy,_ she thinks, prays, all of her focused but on that one word. _Mercy, mercy, mercy,_ she repeats in her mind, engraving the name of his heart over and over again, finally clasping the tablet against his chest and closing her eyes in one last prayer. _Lord, he has been merciful to me. You've showered your grace upon me through him, and I never knew it. Please forgive me; and if not, be merciful unto him at least. That is all I ask of you. Please, God; please._

She looks upon his face, so peaceful now in his sleep, too peaceful, and she can no longer hold back her tears. She holds the amulet against his chest, pressing with her hand; her tears fall upon his cheeks as she leans over him. "Please, God," she whispers, shaking her head, caressing his hair. "I have been a fool. I love him, and I never got to tell him. Please, God, please bring my husband back to me."

She presses a kiss to his mouth, a chaste kiss; his lips still taste of ginger and honey.

It is then that she stiffens. Something is out of skew. She pulls back and sees Jaffar is struggling to control his breathing--again, the corners of his mouth twitch, but this time in a devilish smile. He creaks open one eye, a playful eyebrow lifted high. 

"Jaffar!"

He laughs a little, but that laughter breaks into coughs. Finally, he pulls her into his arms, hugging her tight against himself, sighing deep from his chest.

She groans into his shoulder. "You _bastard._ How long have you been awake?"

He chuckles in her ear, his hands gentle upon her back. "Not for very long," he rasps. "Enough to hear the nursery rhyme about the runaway deer."

She groans again, refusing to look into his face. "It has a prayer in it," she mumbles.

He sighs into her hair. "It worked. I felt... it was a heat in my chest. Here." He takes her hand and slips it inside his robes. His skin is warm; his heart strikes a steady, strong beat against her palm. "Today, all day, I had felt a cold pain there. But it's gone, now. Never again shall I underestimate the power of a nursery rhyme," he murmurs.

She lifts up a little, not wanting to put too much of her weight on his chest. It is then that she can see how much he is smiling; still out of breath, he laughs underneath her in disbelief. "Did you mean what you said?"

"The part about you being an idiot?"

"That, I already knew." He pulls her back against himself and grins widely, mischievously, his eyes sparkling with delight. He caresses her hair and she lets him, her own heart now beating faster, faster, and she cannot help but return his smile. He coaxes her closer, so close that his eyes are crossed as he looks into hers, and she cannot keep a straight face: soon, they are both laughing out loud, _giggling._

"Two idiots," she says, heaving with her laughter, with relief. "Both of us quite mad."

"Yassamin." He massages her scalp with his fingers, closing his eyes, nuzzling her nose with his. He keeps his eyes closed as if this was a dream he did not want to wake up from, his lips so close to hers she can feel the warmth and honey-sweetness of his breath. 

"Would you kiss me again?" he asks, soft, quiet, unsure.

"Only an idiot would," she murmurs and takes his mouth with hers.

***

That night they share the same bed, only to sleep. They both need time to recover, he says. Yet to her, the chastity of this act is exactly what renders it so exquisitely intimate. As Jaffar smiles and climbs into bed in his nightgown, she quivers, her heart galloping in her chest as he lies down beside her. She has only ever shared her bed with soft little handmaidens on cold winter nights, and the sheer size and hardness of a grown man's body feels most strange against her own. But Jaffar holds her gently, a little too carefully, even; she can tell he is trying not to press against her too hard. 

"I am not made of glass, you know," she laughs against his neck. 

"A bridegroom can never be too careful," he says, kissing her hair. "Remember what I said, my lady. I would rather be savaged by tigers than hurt you."

The devil in her awakens; lust quickens between her legs and she cannot help but press a kiss against his neck, purr a little. "What if I _wanted_ to be savaged by a tiger?"

"My lady!" he exclaims in mock shock, laughing. There, she has made an impact: he squirms against her, and she swears she can feel him hardening a little against her belly. Her first night with a man and already she has made him stir, now learning how to use the erotic power of her words and her body upon a man. It is a power she has always possessed but has never been able to put to use, hidden as she has been from the eyes of all men. 

_"Your beauty is dangerous, my child,"_ her father had said. _"It would drive the heavenly bodies into disarray--imagine what it would do to a man! Why, we would have a war on our hands if a rogue prince should happen to lay his eyes upon you."_

And now her rogue prince chuckles and pulls her tighter into his arms, and the rumbling of his chest is like that of a tiger indeed, his voice as soft and as melodious as a cat's. "Be careful what you wish for, girl," he purrs, now grinding his hips against her belly, letting her feel his erection instead of trying to hide it. "If you do indeed want to be savaged, I can arrange that." 

Her cunny tightens so violently she has to moan, has to press herself boldly against him. "I think I would enjoy it very much indeed."

Yet Jaffar pets her hair, more serious, now. "Even after last night?" He lifts her face to look at her, searching her eyes in the lamplight. "I would not blame you for never wanting to be touched by a man again, let alone--"

She cups his cheek. "It's exactly why I want you to. To erase his memory. I want you to not hold back, I--" and she feels like a fool, over-eager even if she has never made love to a man before. She is an old maid, that's what she is, her head full of love manuals she has read over and over without ever having given a man the chance to make those acts come true. She averts her eyes. "I am not making any sense."

He hushes her, kisses her eyelids with a gentleness that breaks her heart. Yet she is angry at him, angry for him being so understanding, so patient when she is sick of waiting, sick of being treated like a princess, a child, a doll. "Stop it, Jaffar."

He does, insulted, his eyes flashing with incomprehension. Yet she finds she prefers even this to his softness, his kindness. He is quiet for a while, measuring her, then takes her hands and holds them against his heart. "My lady. My only wish is to bring you pleasure. But you have to tell me what you want, and above all, know yourself what it is that you want. And if you should not yet know what brings you pleasure, I would be honoured to help you find it. Know that I am not asking this to mock you, that I think you a child. I am only asking this so that I won't hurt you."

She plays with his collar, unable to meet his eyes. "I'm sorry. I want to do so many things with you, I--I wouldn't even know where to start," she laughs, a little hysterically. 

He laughs and nuzzles her face, his eyes sparkling with delight. "I shall take that as the greatest compliment a woman has ever paid me."

It is then that he kisses her, softly, gently, and to stop herself from bursting into tears, she answers his kiss. And it is a beautiful kiss indeed: he explores her mouth so slowly, with such sweetness and such strength that she melts into his embrace. As if to reassure her of his passion, he turns his kiss wilder, sucking upon her tongue, the pleasure of it so sudden, so violent that she screams into his mouth. Her cunny clenches with such exquisite delight that it feels as if she were in the middle of climax; yet this is the opposite of release, and as he sucks upon her tongue again and again, the pleasure becomes maddening. She had no idea such a connection existed between the mouth and the genitals, and now she understands why poets sing about kisses with such fervour. She cannot bear it any longer and pulls back with a wet smack and a whimper, panting into his face.

"Oh, God."

He chuckles again, and now the rumble of his chest goes straight between her legs: she can feel her cunny clenching again and again, her slickness escaping from between its lips onto her thighs. "All of this, just from a kiss?" she blurts, realising how childish she sounds. 

"Never underestimate the power of a kiss," he grins, nuzzling her face. "Would you like to do the same for me?"

"Oh, yes," she laughs. 

"Then savage me," he laughs back. "Come here, little tigress." 

He pulls her to lie on top of himself so that she is straddling him, and he must know how wet she is now that she is soaking through their nightshirts, the way his nostrils flare at her scent. He grins so devilishly she knows he is about to say something wicked, but before he can do so, she stops him with a kiss. She captures his tongue as he had captured hers, trapping it in her mouth, sucking upon it until he, too, moans underneath her. He wants to be savaged? Very well. She presses his arms into the bed just as the Yassamin in his dream had done. There, she sucks upon his tongue harder, pressing her teeth into it until it is he who screams into her mouth, bucking against her, his erection pressing into her buttocks. 

When she withdraws, he is gasping, heaving, staring at her wide-eyed. "Merciful Lord!"

"I told you I wasn't made of glass."

He shakes his head in disbelief, still catching his breath. "They often say virgins are the most perverse and adventurous of all women, not having been disappointed by men yet. I almost hesitate to deflower you, now."

"I am glad for the 'almost'."

He slides his hands up her thighs, pushing her nightgown higher, higher. "Tomorrow."

She clasps his hands and squirms on top of him, deliberately. "Aren't we making love right now?"

He nods. "Not all lovemaking is that of penetration. But when the time comes for that particular act, I would rather that we were both freshly bathed and shaven and oiled. We'll be in Basra three days; thus, there is still enough water left for a good bath for both of us. And we're both a little overgrown down here, I presume?" He grins and skims her groin with his fingertips, brushing the very edges of her pubic hair. 

She yelps and reflexively, pushes her nightgown down. He is right. She is vain enough to want to appear her best when he finally sees her naked, and if he, too, should want to pleasure her with a freshly washed and groomed body, who is she to complain? Again, she feels ashamed for her eagerness and lack of manners. Love-play is an art that should be taken seriously, this she knows from her books; an art that should aim at satisfying all the senses. And yet she would rush it, letting the heat in her hips get in the way of common sense, of those pleasures that--or so she has read--can only be reached after a long night of slow lovemaking? The man lying underneath her is three decades her senior, with three decades of experience behind the teasing look she now sees in his eyes. And knowing what a sensualist he is, that must be a _lot_ of experience indeed. How she must appear to him--not only an inexperienced child, but a tart more uncouth than his slave girls! The shame overwhelms her and she climbs off him, mumbling apologies.

He hushes her and draws her into his arms. "No, no. It is I who should apologise. I did not mean to call you dirty." He kisses her softly. "Here, let me show you something." Gently, he takes one of her legs and wraps it around his own waist, rocking himself against her, his erection pressed against her mound. "Imagine how lovely this will feel tomorrow, your bare skin against mine," he murmurs. "No cloth, no fur in the way, only flesh against slick flesh." 

She moans against his mouth, the heat between her legs silencing her shame once more. "It feels wonderful _now,_ " she says between kisses. She buries her face in his shoulder and embraces him tight, sighing softly as they rock against each other, pleasuring each other in this manner. The pleasure, the remains of her shame, her old hatred for him coil within her, twisting her innards until she does not know what she feels; she only knows that she is overwhelmed. She cannot laugh, she cannot cry, so she groans into his shoulder, grinding against him. How can he bear this slow torture? She thinks she might fall apart from sheer frustration, pierced from all sides by a pleasure like this and yet denied release. Is this how a captured animal feels, wounded, denied the mercy of the hunter's knife? 

"Please," she moans, unable to bear it any longer. "Please do something, I--"

With a groan of pleasure, he withdraws. "Masturbate."

"When I have you?" 

He strokes her cheek; he runs his other hand over his bulge and hisses in delight. "It would give me great pleasure to watch you."

"Is that it? You want me to perform for you like one of your slave girls?" She is hurt, knowing she is snapping at him, but she doesn't care.

"Did I not buy you?" he says. He is jesting, but his laughter terrifies her even as it arouses her: he looks as if he knows something she doesn't. And perhaps he does; perhaps he has seen in her the capacity for perversions she has not even recognised in herself yet. Perhaps he had seen it in her eyes that day at the slave market, had seen the hidden arousal in her shivering as he had devoured her body with his gaze. She had been chained, dressed only in her undergarments, and the slavers had offered to let Jaffar sample her in the back room. He had refused, and a secret, suppressed part of her had hated him for his chivalry. She feels trapped, trapped by her own lust, trapped by his cleverness. 

She wants to fight him--does not the blood of great warriors run through her veins? But that hidden Yassamin he has now exposed shivers in lust once more, wants to be as lewd and as free as a courtesan. Thus, she lies down on her back and lifts her nightshirt.

He grabs her wrist. "No. Save that sight for tomorrow. Women often do it through their clothes, don't they? On their bellies? I only wish to see your face."

Puzzled, she turns to lie down on her stomach. "You seem to know quite a lot about women pleasuring themselves."

"Why do you think I took up magic in the first place?" He leers as he sits down cross-legged in front of her, helping her rest her head and shoulders half on a pillow, half in his lap. "A powerful crystal can see into any harem, even one as well-guarded as a sultan's." 

She groans. "I have married a satyr."

"I'll let you judge that for yourself tomorrow night, my lady. Now, close your eyes. Masturbate as you do when you are alone, as if I were not here."

Easier said than done. She moves into position, trying to spread her folds just so that her joined hands press on her clitoris. It's difficult even in her aroused state; in the end, she has to pull the nightshirt out of the way while still covering her buttocks and thighs with it, as he had requested. He is a strange, chaste pervert, she thinks--but then, her hands slip into the right position, the weight of her hips pressing her clitoris against them and she moans in delight. 

He caresses her hair. "Good girl." It's such a condescending thing to say, but it arouses her: a shiver runs through her and she has to start moving, has to rub herself against her hands. Before, she had always thought of her invisible lover, her djinni when masturbating, and now she does not know what to make of the onrush of the flesh-and-blood masculinity before her that is Jaffar. For as she pants against his legs, she can smell his sex, smell his sweat, his musk and another shiver whips through her body. She creaks her eyes open a little, hoping he won't notice and stares at the outlines of his cock hidden by his nightgown: there are wet stains upon his belly, some from her, some from him, his own scent mixing with that of hers. She wants to wait no longer, wants to taste him, wants his fluids to mix with hers inside her own body; her fingers slip upon her cunny and she whimpers in frustration. 

"Keep your eyes closed," he whispers with such gentleness, such tenderness. "I am going to show you something." He caresses her hair, caresses her shoulders; he leans over her so that his scent is even closer to her nostrils, now. He spreads his hands upon her back and it is then that she hears the sound of rustling leaves, feels the warmth of the sun's rays upon her body. She hears the sounds of birds, but no, no, this is no garden, they are upon a ship--

He lifts her hair from the nape of her neck. "I have loved you for longer than you think, Yassamin of Basra."

"No--" she wails, so close to release now, panting in shock. He can't have been, he can't--she bursts into tears, refusing to open her eyes. A cold fear clutches at her belly, yet at the same time something in her heart cracks open, expands, sings: crying out loud from the bottom of her lungs, she sobs against his body. "I hate you," she screams against his legs. She can smell grass, and the caresses of his hands, his warm, living, real hands are the same, familiar ones she has always felt upon her body. The caresses no mortal man could ever gift her with, the caresses of a man made of smokeless fire. 

"No," she sobs.

He kisses the back of her neck. "Yes," Jaffar whispers, the same voice she had heard upon the wind, the leaves, the birdsong. He slides his hands down to her hips, down, cups her buttocks through her nightshirt. Even through her own tremors, her own noises she can feel he is trembling now, too, can hear the tears in his throat. "You don't hate me, Yassamin of Basra," he says, pleading. "Do you?"

She opens her eyes and the love on his face slays her; she no longer knows what is dream and what is reality. All she knows now is ecstasy, all she knows is that everything else is a lie. It is then that he slides a hand between her buttocks and presses his fingers to her anus, again, again. Screaming, she convulses upon her hands, bucks against his fingers, tears streaming down her face as she crashes into release. Light explodes through her hips, her spine, her limbs in a series of violent blasts, making her grind her face against his robe until her cheek is raw. Yet he does not stop stroking her, and she does not stop moving upon her hands; on and on she flows, pleasure scattering, glittering through her like sunlight upon water, like sunlight through leaves.

"No," she cries even as he continues to stroke her, gently pushing more pulses of light through her spine. She looks up at him, her face wet from tears. "I never hated you," she says, realises, understands for the first time. "I never hated you," she sobs even as he gathers her into his arms, kissing the tears from her cheeks. "I never hated you, never hated you," she murmurs as she clutches his shirt. 

"I am glad to hear that," he says, pausing to wipe moisture from his own eyes. 

She hiccoughs. "Although, now, I don't know if I should. Jaffar, son of Yahya, you are a complete and utter bastard." 

He laughs, but she thinks she can spy genuine hurt behind his eyes. She has not said the words he wants to hear, but cannot bring herself to say them, and hates herself for it. She is still too shaken--she had only just begun to trust him, and what he has revealed, now--she does not know what to think. When Jaffar had stepped into this bed with her, she had loved him. The Yassamin that lay beside him had left her djinni in the past. And now--she does not know; she is still trying to make sense of it all.

"Was it always you?"

He rests his hand on her shoulder. "For the past three years or so."

"And you never thought it was cruel to play tricks on me so?" She tries not to be hurt, but it seems impossible.

He casts his eyes down. "I am sorry. I should never have told you."

"No." She shakes her head. "Had you appeared in my garden in the flesh, I would have followed you. I would have followed you anywhere." _Like I followed Ahmad,_ she thinks. "And now I know how stupid that would have been," she laughs bitterly. "The stupid impulse of a stupid girl."

He squeezes her hand, his eyes burning. "Don't say that. Please."

"No, I mean it. If you hadn't done it, if I hadn't been such a fool--" she averts her eyes. 

"Don't think I haven't cursed myself for everything I have put you through." His voice is reedy, brittle from regret. "The moment Ahmad appeared in your garden I realised the danger I had put you in, how I'd corrupted your mind."

"And I am half to blame for having enjoyed my corruption so," she says, for she cannot hate him, cannot. "I do not regret any of those afternoons; know this. My love for the djinni was real, even if he wasn't." She wipes tears from her face, her voice cracking. "It was stupid of me, and may God cast me into Hell, but I loved every moment; it was more real than anything I'd ever felt in my life. And when Ahmad came--"

"Why do you think I arrived that same afternoon?" Now it is his turn to laugh bitterly. "I had seen what had happened and came to rescue you, believe it or not; to atone for my sins. Ahmad's appearance was punishment enough for this idiot who thought he could win your love by magic, by illusions. My forehead was red from prayers of repentance that day! I flew there as soon as I could on the very beast I gave your father--no ordinary horse would have been fast enough. The game I had played was over; thus, I came to ask for your hand in the honourable manner. I was to introduce myself to you in your garden that very evening, to kneel at your feet and beg for your forgiveness, had you not run off."

It's all mad, absurd, and she cannot help but laugh. "You left it a little late."

He, however, is serious, solemn as he gets up and kneels beside the bed, taking her hand. "I have been a fool and a coward--believe me, I have learned my lesson," he laughs, sniffing back tears. "May God strike me down if I ever try to trick you again; may I burn for all eternity if I ever hurt you again." He kisses her hand. "Today, my lady, you have given me back my heart, and gladly I lay it at your feet once more. Yassamin, daughter of Mahmoud, will you forgive me?"

She can barely hear his last words; she is too shaken from her own weeping. She takes both his hands and pulls him back to bed. "I do," she says, hugging him so tight she cannot breathe. "I do, I do," she murmurs as he covers her face in kisses; "I do, I do," as she lays herself down on top of him. With the weight of her body, she loves him, forgives him until with the softest of cries, he comes undone underneath her, smiling, ecstatic in his absolution. 

"Thank you," he smiles, his eyes closed in utter joy, relief. 

"You are still an idiot," she laughs, kissing the tip of his nose.

"The happiest idiot in the world," he sighs, pulling her into the sweetest, softest of kisses.


	4. Chapter 4

It feels strange to be prepared for her bridal bed for the second time in two weeks. There is no end to the girls' jokes, either--they tell her they're glad she has finally come to her senses, proving that she wasn't a madwoman after all. Leila declares that they should prepare her properly this time, to deck her out in so much heavy jewelry it'll be impossible for her to run away. Only half of it lies at the bottom of the sea, now, and the wedding dress itself looks shabby, hardly fit for a princess. The silk is coarse from the salt that still clings to it, the girls having washed it with only the minimum amount of water--yet, Jaffar had insisted that she wear it. 

Only little Noor sulks somewhat; it is clear she is fiercely jealous of her master. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do with this pretty royal bottom of yours," she quips and slaps Yassamin's buttocks. Yassamin yelps, still sore from the enema Noor had given her but an hour ago--she did think Noor had been deliberately heavy-handed with the syringe. And now that all the girls burst into laughter, she bunches her hands into fists from shame, from anger at her own inexperience. She hates this, hates being surrounded by rivals. If Jaffar is so used to beautiful women of every size, shape and colour, how soon would he get bored with her and go back to amusing himself with the other girls? And if--as it seems from their laughter--he has practiced every sexual act under the sun with them, up to and including sodomy and fellatio, what chance has she, a virgin, of giving him even a fraction of the pleasures he has been accustomed to?

 _He loves you, you fool,_ her conscience scolds her. _But is it enough?_ the devil on her shoulder asks. 

"Please," she says and takes Leila's hand, but it's all the girls she is now addressing, with all the sweetness and charm she can muster. "Please, each of you, tell me what you know about his tastes, and I will reward you handsomely once we get home. If there is anything in particular that he likes, some trick, some phrase he likes to hear, anything. I want to leave him in a good mood."

"A good entertaining-girl never gives away her tricks," Noor says, snapping her trinket box shut. 

"Ignore her," Leila says, pulling Yassamin closer, whispering in her ear. Soon, all the other girls except Noor lean in to whisper as well, trading tips and tricks, bursting into giggles and then shameless cackles as Yassamin herself flushes scarlet. It's one thing to read about certain acts in books, but to now hear which ones your groom likes, and how he likes them performed--

"Enough!" Yassamin puts her hand to her forehead and sits down on the bed. "My head is spinning."

Noor smirks, but with less malice now; the look on her face is almost sympathetic. "Did you tell her the one about--" she whispers the act into Yassamin's ear. When Yassamin but stares at her, Noor's grin widens further. "And that's why he insisted that I rinse you."

Yassamin springs to her feet. "That is quite enough!" she shouts, but she really does feel dizzy and she has to balance herself against the mast. "I feel as if I am going into battle," she murmurs.

"You are," Noor says, slapping Yassamin's buttocks once more as the girls make their way out of the cabin. "I'd start on the wine if I were you," she says with a wink and closes the door behind herself.

***

When she arrives in Jaffar's cabin, he is nowhere to be seen. The bed has been made; the cabin has been perfumed so heavily with incense she can barely breathe. It's still light, and perhaps he is nervous himself, still grooming himself somewhere--she likes to think so. She closes the door behind herself and heads towards the wine tray.

It is then that he wraps his arms around her from behind. "Good evening."

"Jaffar!" she gasps, laughs, leans back against him. "You gave me a fright." 

She tries to turn around in his arms, but he holds her fast. "What's the matter?" he laughs. "I thought you wanted a little savagery tonight."

"Not yet," she says, and this time he lets her turn around. She is only wearing slippers instead of shoes, now, so she has to tiptoe to press a kiss to his lips. "Good evening, husband."

He gathers her veil up and tosses it onto the floor with a flourish. "Good evening, wife." 

Before she can respond, he has lifted her up and pressed her against the mast, her legs wrapped around his waist. She yelps, giggles, struggling for balance, but Jaffar holds her firmly, easily. Her heart is racing, but she feels safe; safe in his embrace, safe in the love she now sees glowing upon his face. She has never seen him smile so much, never laugh as joyously as he does now: she wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him, sips some of his happiness into herself, sharing in its warmth.

And he seems glad to give her that happiness; he moans with it as she kisses his lips, sucking them, wetting them with her own. She slips her tongue into his mouth but as soon as he tries to suck upon it, she snatches it away, chuckling mischievously. His eyes flash with excitement and he becomes more aggressive, nipping at her lips in revenge, sucking upon them instead, making her cunny clench against his belly. On and on she teases him with flicks of her tongue, and with each flick, she lets him suck a little longer; finally, he attacks her mouth with such force the back of her head hits the mast and he claims her tongue for good. This time, she does not hold back a single moan, scream as he sucks upon her tongue, presses his teeth into it; with trembling hands, she undoes his turban so that she can sink her hands into his hair, to clutch it in her fists. She shivers against him, heaving from her gasps, her arousal, trying to rub her entire body against his; oh, she wants him to never stop.

But he has to pull back, now panting from lack of breath, from his joy. "Come to bed, my lady."

She squirms against him theatrically until all her jewelry rattles and tinkles. "If my lord will let me."

"Don't exert yourself," he grins and cups her buttocks, carrying her for the two steps that take them to the bed. There, he groans in delight, gathering her into his arms, inhaling the scent of her hair. "Basil," he says. "You have never worn that before."

"The girls told me it was an aphrodisiac." Playfully, she sniffs his hair in turn. She can only smell aloeswood, roses and musk, but something--a scent she always associates with him--is missing. "You've left out the jasmine this time."

"What would I need it for, when I have this one blooming upon me tonight?" he laughs, pulling her to sit on top of him. And as he lies there, smiling, she wonders if he is not jesting at all: he, if anyone, would know of magical correspondences and would have worn her namesake to draw her closer to himself. He is far too superstitious, far too much of a sentimentalist not to have.

And like a bower, she now bends her body on top of him, covering him with her kisses, with the fragrance of her hair. "I am sorry I ruined the jasmine garland," she grins. "If I had it now, I would shake my hair until you were covered in petals. You look so happy, like a prince enchanted by fairies, fallen asleep in a magical glade."

He caresses her hair and grins back. "I feel like one. I felt like one the day I first came to you in your garden. Trust me when I say that ever since that day, my heart has been yours."

She quirks her eyebrow and moves a little lower upon him, deliberately pressing her cunny against the curve of his cock. "What about this thing here? The girls told me quite a few tales."

He blushes, he actually _blushes,_ and covers his face with his arm. "The prick is not necessarily attached to the heart," he groans. "It can have a will of its own."

"It feels like it," she laughs, not jealous at all, now, more amused than anything else as she feels him stir against her cunny. 

He groans again, takes his arm off his face and cups her buttocks instead. "So does that little slit of yours. You do realise you are ruining my suit?"

"You'd best take it off, then," she says and squirms, smiling so hard her cheeks hurt.

"My word," he laughs. "Now you do talk like an entertaining-girl. Speaking of whom--you should not worry about them. I have not felt desire for them in months. I shall manumit them all once we arrive in Basra." 

She feels a stab of pain in her heart; she ceases to rock herself upon him and casts her eyes down. "But what if I should let you down? I cannot possibly give you all the things half a dozen women can."

"Shh." He stops, too, lifting her chin, making her meet his eyes once more. "Who says you don't already do so, in my eyes at least?"

Her heart swells in her chest; why does he have to be so wonderful? She believes him, yet she would not deprive him of his God-given right to enjoy the girls. And he is a good master, kind to his women--wouldn't it be crueller to let them go? She knows he will, so there is only one thing for it.

"Give them to me. As a wedding gift."

He blinks. 

"A queen will need plenty of handmaidens, will she not?" she says. 

Jaffar bursts into laughter and rolls his eyes. "I can't tell you what I was thinking of for a moment, there."

She smacks his shoulder. "You _are_ an old satyr. Shame on you."

"And I live with Sappho herself! You should see the games Halima plays with the girls when she thinks I'm not watching. Perhaps you and I could curl up by the crystal together and watch them sometime."

"Jaffar!"

He rocks against her buttocks, smacks them, grins and grins. "Oh, _gladly_ will let you keep them, my dear; there's no question of jealousy either way. To think of you between Noor's legs..." he hisses in delight.

And she thinks about it, thinks of Noor's small, plump body, her full breasts, the pink cunny she'd glimpsed--she shivers and flushes all over, covering her face in shame at her arousal. "I can't believe what you are telling me. All right, all right, I will manumit them myself!" she groans into her hands.

He takes her hands and pulls her into a kiss, chuckling. "Perhaps it would be for the best. But here, we are talking of tribades and orgies before I have even taken you. I apologise." He lays her hands on his heart. "I mean what I say; I love you and only you. Does that not make you happy?"

"It does," she says, kissing his nose. "But you had better show me. And no more talk of the girls tonight."

"I promise." He rolls them over so that he is lying on top of her. "For in you, I have the best of both worlds: the wife and the slave girl."

She stretches underneath him in delight. His weight feels wonderful on top of her, even better than the kisses he is now covering her neck with. "Which one do you want to claim first?" 

"The wife," he says, pausing on top of her, more serious, now.

She cups his cheek. "Your wife would have you stay where you are. Please; rest on me for a while. I would feel your weight upon me." _Now that you are real,_ she thinks, swallowing down an ache in her throat, _now that you are no longer mere fantasy._

"Your wish is my command." Gently, he spreads her limbs and lowers his own on top of hers: he lets himself grow slack, sighing blissfully into her shoulder as if he were now sinking into love itself. This is what she had been dreaming of for so long, so long. Her djinni, become a man of flesh and blood, the scents of his sweat and his perfumes, the taste of his kisses now real. His fingers entwined with hers, real; the warmth of his breath against her neck, real; his hard muscle against her softness, real. 

Yet it's not enough. She wants to feel his bare skin against hers. She groans and he shifts, rolls to his side, obviously thinking he is suffocating her. She but cups his cheek and presses a soft kiss upon his lips. "I am ready."

He laughs a little and kisses her hand in turn. "I think I am, too," he says, so softly it's as if he were the virgin. "Come." He sits up and pats the edge of the bed. "Sit with me here where it's light; let me see you."

She sits next to him, pillowing her chin on his shoulder. "And now?"

"I am still looking." He reaches for the clasp of her dress, his fingers lingering upon her throat. Slowly, gently he nuzzles her hair, her face, coaxing her into the softest of kisses. When he undoes the clasp, her breath stops, but he returns it to her from his own lips, deepening the kiss as he undoes the other clasp underneath her breasts. The dress falls open at the front, exposing the middle of her chest, her waist. Again, she gasps, but his hands are gentle upon her skin, but an enormous tenderness and warmth; he withdraws to look into her eyes, asking for permission even now.

"Please," and she closes her eyes and kisses him back, drawing his hand inside. She lets go, trembles as he pulls the dress down her shoulders, never ceasing in his kissing of her. There is but the sound of their breathing, their lips, the tinkle of her armlets and her bangles as he slides those off, too, until she sits beside him naked to the waist. 

He pulls back and lets out a little, huffing laugh of disbelief. His hands hover in mid-air, not quite touching her breasts, as if he still couldn't believe this was real. When she looks up at him, he laughs again, nervous. "Still looking."

She leans towards him so that he can reach her better. "Touch me. Please."

He shakes his head and laughs some more, presses his forehead against hers. Finally, finally the vast warmth of his hands meets her breasts. She closes her eyes to better feel him, to take in his touch: the strength, the skill of his hands, the heat of each long finger as he cups her breasts. They're the hands of a man who crafts the finest of clockwork toys; why should he be afraid of hurting her with them? Thus, she cups her hands over his and whispers onto his lips. 

"A little more savage, my love."

He grins at her and _squeezes,_ squeezes her so hard that she cries out onto his lips; but she is quivering in pleasure and presses back into his hands. "Please. More."

"Is that what you like, then, my child?" he teases, purrs, his teeth flashing in the setting sun's light. He looks into her eyes, now, taking her nipples between his fingers. Before she can answer, he pinches them, rolls them, tugs on them until each pinch sends a flash of heat straight to her cunny, sends her whimpering into his face.

"Yes," she gasps through trembling lips, "Yes."

He turns his touch into a gentle caress once more, kissing her, his thumbs drawing soothing circles over her nipples. "I promise to give you more," he says, "only now it's your turn." He takes her hands to the sash around his waist. "Fair is fair, wouldn't you say?"

"Quite," she says and unties the sash, pulling his shirt over his head. His hair flies all over and she ruffles it further between kisses, laughing into his mouth. "Now let me look at _you._ "

He grins, but she can see he is trying to suck in his belly. It's hardly necessary, as he is as thin as the last time she saw him half-dressed, made of but bone and sinew. She is sure he looks better than most men his age, and in any case, what would it matter since she loves him? She loves his thin shoulders, so she kisses them; she loves the way the veins stand out on his forearms, so she kisses them too, slow, sweet, covering his arms with kisses. She thinks of what the girls had said about the sensitivity of his nipples, but decides to save courtesans' tricks for later: for now, she only kisses his nipples lightly, loving the way they harden against her lips, smeared from her lip paint as she withdraws. In fact, now his shoulders and arms and chest are all covered in red smears; he glances down at himself and laughs. 

"You have well and truly marked me, my lady."

"I am not finished yet," she grins and pushes him down so that she can kiss his belly: just as she had guessed, he is ticklish and yelps, her touch sending him tossing helplessly from laughter. 

"Stop!" he howls between guffaws, panting, his face red. 

She is now panting from laughter, too, leaning half on top of him, brushing his chest with her breasts, her hand on the drawstring of his trousers. "I would see more of you, my love."

He lifts himself on his elbows, his hair a mess, his eyes wide in mock outrage. "It's my turn!"

She pulls off the one slipper still clinging to his left foot. "Yours looks more eager to get out," she grins, nodding towards his erection.

With a growl, he manhandles her onto the bed, kicks her legs apart and rubs himself against her mound. "And I can _smell_ yours," he hisses, his eyes slitted from lust. He kisses her mouth hungrily and brings both their hands between their legs. "You undo mine and I undo yours. Wouldn't you call that a good compromise?"

She bites her lip and reaches for his waistband, and there they tussle: yelping, biting, kissing, tugging at each other's laces until their silks tangle around their knees. She tries to reach for his cock, but he attacks her by tickling her in turn: screaming, she falls face down onto the mattress as he tugs the rest of their clothes off and lies down on top of her. 

She pants, hysterical from laughter, giggles into the pillows. "Merciful Lord." 

He bites into her shoulder with a playful growl. "I'd quite like to hear you beg for mercy before the night is over, I must admit."

She chuckles at him over her shoulder. "Would you give it?"

"No."

"Then it would be useless to beg for it, wouldn't it?" She wriggles, teasing him with her buttocks. But it's equally useless: he is so tall his cock rests against her thighs, not her buttocks. She still hasn't seen it properly, and she knows he won't show it to her until _he_ wants to: the way he assumes control is an aphrodisiac in and of itself, she finds as he pins her down onto the mattress and groans on top of her with exaggerated delight. 

"You feel wonderful," he murmurs, clasping her against himself, kissing her ear. 

She hugs his arms against herself, relaxing, melting underneath him. "As do you," she murmurs back.

"I've smelled you," he says with a kiss on one shoulder, "looked at you," a kiss on the other, "and I have touched you." He kisses the nape of her neck. "It's about time I tasted you, don't you think?" he chuckles wetly against her ear.

She shivers, clutches the sheets; she knows, or at least she thinks she knows what he means. "Please." 

"Mmm." He licks at one shoulderblade, then the other. "I was not asking permission, my lady."

"Oh--" 

But her gasp turns into a whimper as he drags his fingers down her sides, again, again, in soft, clawing motions. He mouths the back of her neck, nips it, bites it; deliberately hurting her a little. A small cry dies in the back of her throat; her hips press into the bed and she is dripping wet between her legs, wet all over now that she has been shorn of all hair. He lets out a happy growl and she knows this is what she had been asking for: he is giving her the taste of the beast she had wanted to see, the savaging she had so desired. 

And now she can feel his cock, gliding between her buttocks, the heat of it, the thickness of it, its weight; again, he bites her neck like an animal mounting another and she suffocates a cry into the pillows. "Jaffar--"

"I have barely even started," he says, dragging his nails down her sides once more, licking his way down her spine. He laps there, nips, worries at her skin: she may have marked him with her lip paint, but he is now marking her with his teeth, she is sure of it, leaving a little love-bite on each vertebra. _The speckled serpent,_ they'd called it in one of her books. And she loves him for it, loves being marked this way, loves him as he drags his teeth across the small of her back, making her cunny stain the sheets. He claws at her buttocks, clutches them, spreads them as he withdraws, and she can feel his breath on her cunny, soft against her wetness as he moans--

\--and he returns to her neck, starting all over again. She kicks and screams underneath him, he holding her down as she thrashes, indignant.

"Jaffar, does your tablet have a section for 'prick?' Because I swear I could push a needle straight through it right now."

He chuckles and rests his entire weight on her, clasping her hands. "It does. It's over there, by the mast, where you flung it." He squeezes her hands and shifts, slipping his cock between her buttocks. "I'd like to see you try and fetch it."

She lets out an exaggerated moan of frustration. His laughter annoys her so much that she keeps on struggling, using his weight to tame her own restlessness. On and on she squirms, but his hands clasp her wrists painfully tight; she tosses her head and mewls but he pins her down with his hips, his breath hot against her ear. 

"Are you ready to plead for mercy yet?" he purrs.

"No!" she yelps, wriggling underneath him, kicking at his legs with her own. 

But doing so only makes him kick her legs apart, kick them wide open. He curls on top of her, moving his cock between her legs so that it now drags against her wet cunny, her arse, smooth and slick. "Are you sure?" 

She trembles in hopeless arousal, her cunny clenching against his cock, and she is sure he can feel it doing so. "Is that the only way you will stop teasing?"

"I thought it was you who needed this," he croons in her ear. "That you needed me to conquer your pride, even if it meant I had to tie you down on our wedding night. Because a ravishment was what you wanted, wasn't it? A ravishment to which you secretly acquiesced. You wanted me to take control, so that you would not have to feel guilty." He releases her wrists and runs his nails down her arms, her sides. "Is that not so, my sweet?" 

He knows too much about women. She hates him for it, hates him for putting to words the exact things she has felt for weeks but has never been able to make sense of. He is right; she would not mind him conquering her inhibitions. But she _does_ resent him for conquering her with his intelligence, his experience, making those three decades weigh heavily between them. But why does she still pretend to be older than she is, that she knows more than he does? What is it in her that still refuses to let go, even if he is offering all his experience, all his knowledge for her pleasure? 

It is her pride. That exact stupid pride that has given her so much misery. And he is right, right; she needs his help to let go, needs him to give her the keys to the prison of her mind. He pushes between her legs and the tip of his cock presses against her entrance; she twitches underneath him, clutches the sheets with her fists. He stays still, trembles, a soft little noise escaping his throat as he dips into her wetness. Yet, he says nothing, only stays on top of her and listens. Even now, he is waiting for her, waiting for her as he always has done, waiting for her permission to let him love her, and it breaks her heart. 

She clutches the sheets tighter, struggling not to cry. Yet when she can finally speak, her voice sounds very small, very young to her own ears, and she can barely recognise it. And with it, she lets go, offers all of herself, all her pride, all her foolishness at his feet.

"Help me, Jaffar."

With a soft, pained moan, he turns her around, holding her close. "I will," he promises with a kiss as he picks up his sash and brings it to her wrists. "Would this help?"

Her heart stumbles; she looks at the sash, then back at him. The way he smiles at her is warm, sweet, knowing. And in that moment, she knows that what he is now offering her is release, freedom.

"Yes," she smiles, shaking her head at him. "But only if you promise not to tease me any longer."

"I promise." He kisses her nose. "Lift your hands." 

Gently, tenderly he binds her wrists above her head, and it all makes perfect sense now, as if they had performed this act before, in a dream, a past lifetime. She smiles up at him, smiles as he attaches the ends of the sash to the window lattice just above the bed, then makes sure she is held fast. 

"Are you comfortable?" he asks, nuzzling her face. 

"Mm," she says, testing the sash, wriggling a little. And she cannot help it; she must ask. "How often have you done this to a woman?"

He runs his eyes down her body with lascivious delight; then follows his gaze with his hand, stroking her neck, her chest, cupping her breast. "To tell you the truth, it's my first time." When she looks up at him in confusion, he slaps her breast lightly, playfully. "What sort of a man do you take me for? I told you I have never been a brute with a woman." When she is about to respond, he slaps her other breast, equally lightly, then drags his nails down her belly until she squirms. "Not until you, that is. Never did I bed a woman that needed so much _taming._ "

Her only answer is a yelp, but he continues, clawing his way down her body, squeezing her flesh, smacking her softly here and there, until finally he lies down between her legs. "I must say I am quite enjoying this," he murmurs, wrapping his arms around her thighs, his mouth but inches from her cunny. 

"You promised no more teasing!" she pants, slapping his back with the soles of her feet. 

"I lied," he says, shrugging. "I must warm you up somehow, mustn't I?"

"I'm burning up as it is," she groans.

"Mm-hmm? Here, too?" He cups her mound with his hand and she stops her squirming. He massages her with his hand; she falls completely quiet--how could she not? His hand feels wonderful, warm, so large it covers her entire sex; she feels utterly filthy, dirty as he smears his palm with her wetness, not caring at all for the mess he is making. No, he relishes it, smirking up at her, deliberately wetting his entire hand. 

"That feels wonderful," she sighs, gazing down at him in awe, trembling not only from the sensation but from the look in his eyes, from how much pleasure it brings him to give _her_ pleasure.

"So you remember this?" he murmurs, trapping her folds between his fingers, stroking the very top of her slit, his fingertips slipping lightly over either side of her clitoris.

She cannot hold back a gasp, her breath escaping her lungs in little gusts, stutters. "Djinni," she whispers, because it's what she has whispered for years when masturbating, and now she casts her eyes down in shame. "I'm sorry. _Jaffar._ "

"Don't apologise," he says, shaking his head, his voice gentle, a little choked from emotion. "How I wished that one day I would be more than just your djinni," he says. "How I wished I could caress you, just like this, and not just with my mind." He presses a soft kiss, the softest of kisses onto her mound. "How I wished I could taste you--I am sorry, I am sorry, I can't hold back, I must--"

And he withdraws his hand and kisses her cunny, licks her like a slave girl licks another, and the heat of his mouth is too much, too much. Each flick of his tongue is a sharp lash of pleasure through her body, the new sensation overwhelming her and she does not know how to contain it. She arches upon the bed, the voice of her mind small, distant, so drowned it is in pleasure. Yet that voice now whispers a prayer of gratitude for her bonds; hysterically, she wonders if she would fall off the bed if she wasn't held down by the silk, by Jaffar's arms around her thighs. She does not recognise the noises she's making; she moans so deep from within herself that it is as if the moans come from her very womb, from the waves of heat, the sweet contractions of her muscles at each one of his licks, sucks. 

"I apologise," he murmurs, withdrawing for breath, his mouth glistening from her. "It is the most unmanly of acts, I know."

"I don't fault you!" she exclaims, stunned, trying to wrap her legs around him to pull him closer. "It feels wonderful. Please. Please, continue."

He licks his lips and quirks his eyebrow. "Then again, I have been called unmanly all my life," he says, spreading her cunny with his thumbs, groaning deep in his chest as he admires her, that very groan making her hips lift under his hands. "As manly as a pussycat, they called me. Might as well take pride in it, don't you agree?"

She would answer him, but only incoherent noises come out of her mouth as he has already resumed his illicit kiss. Only this time, he does not hold back, spreading her roughly, pushing his tongue in as deep as it will go, _licking her on the inside,_ and she wails underneath his mouth. And it is then that he clutches at her hips, yanks her towards himself and presses his mouth to the top of her slit, so hard his teeth press against her pubic bone, blinding her with pleasure. _He is eating me alive,_ she thinks, delirious, flowing honeyed into his mouth, her entire skin covered in goosebumps. Her belly dips, spasms as he lifts her hips off the bed in order to suck at her better, and she cannot help but scream as she is devoured.

She is in a chaos, her body and her mind not knowing how to process these sensations: she is enwrapped in so much pleasure she feels it might tear her very mind apart, send her howling into madness. She has only ever felt like this when near orgasm, but then, she had always been alone, or he had been invisible. Her djinni never did this, never. An invisible caress was nothing in comparison to the way he now stares up at her, now knowing how much she is enjoying this perversion, how much she loves him for it. He sucks at her clitoris, sucks at it with force, claws at her belly and all the while, he keeps staring at her, forcing reactions out of her, drinking them in as he drinks from her flesh. His face is too much for her to look at; the love, the rage of passion in his eyes too much for her to bear, and she closes her eyes and sobs.

"Please, Jaffar; please, please," she cries over and over, not even knowing what she is asking for. 

"Shh, shh," he says, lowering her down on the bed. Her cunny hurts, now, her folds smart from being sucked and bitten so, from being so flushed with blood, but it is a sweet pain, a warm pain, one that now radiates from her pelvis into her entire torso. He soothes her cunny with softer kisses, wetter licks, then rests his head against her thigh and sighs in contentment. "You taste delicious." He runs his fingertips up and down her slit, grinning as she jerks back from the touch, from how good it feels. "Would you like some more?"

She throws her head back on the pillows and laughs. "Depends on what you mean by 'more.'"

He nuzzles her thigh, his hair a mess, his eyes soft from tenderness. "I would give you release before I take you. I do not wish to hurt you too much when I do." He licks her taste from his hand, then presses one finger--or at least she thinks it's one--against her entrance. "Make you soft as silk." Yet, he bursts into disbelieving, fond laughter as his finger slides deep inside her, easily. "But you are that already. My, my." He turns his finger inside her and feels the walls of her flesh, kissing her clitoris again, laughing into her cunny.

The stretch of his finger feels wonderful, but she is tired of this teasing, this waiting. She strokes his back with her foot. "I am ready."

He kisses her thigh. "How would you know?"

"I know." And in that moment she hates her confinement, hates not being able to pull him to lie over her, to cover her, to fill her. "Please, Jaffar." She tugs at her bonds and he sees her do so, and she knows that he would release her the moment she requested it. Yet, she doesn't, only pulls him closer with her feet. "Do you want me to beg?"

"No, no," he murmurs apologetically as he kisses his way up her belly. "I was jesting." Gently, he lies down on top of her, cupping her face in his hands, stroking her lips with his thumbs. "Unless you _want_ to plead for me, of course," he says, grins, resting his cock against her cunny. "I cannot lie; it would give me great pleasure to hear it after all this time."

She gives him a quick, teasing kiss, makes her voice but a wicked little whisper. _"Please."_

"What was that?" he asks, tickling her sides until she kicks, yelps. 

"Please," she laughs, still deliberately quiet.

He groans and rubs himself against her, dropping soft kisses upon her lips. "I shall just keep doing this until I can hear you, shall I?" He presses down with his hips, his cock gliding between her folds, so hot and so thick--oh, she has to bite her lip in order not to moan. His size should scare her, but she no longer cares; all she wants is to have him inside of her. The pain will be but brief, that's what she has been told; she is eager to reach the pleasures that await her on the other side of virginity.

"Please take me," she whispers between kisses, making her voice sweet, sweeter still in its tease. "Please, husband."

"I can't hear you," he sing-songs, gasping as she moves against him, she gliding back just at the right moment so that the head of his cock dips inside of her. For a brief second, his control slips, his hips jerking; his grin is so wide he looks positively manic. "Look me in the eye and say it."

"Jaffar," she laughs against his lips, her voice clear, bright. She feels weightless, full of joy as she lets go, lets go of Yassamin the virgin, the fool who had hated the one who loved her best. "Please take me, Jaffar. Please."

He says nothing, only cups her face and looks at her, looks at her as he starts to push inside. He nudges her thighs apart with his hips and guides himself in with his other hand: all throughout, he keeps looking into her eyes with such love, such care she dare not close her own. The veins on his temples swell from effort; his throat bobs, his breath stops. "I love you," he chokes, balancing on top of her, rocking slowly against her, into her. "Yassamin--please breathe for me, breathe--"

For she has forgotten how to, from the force of her emotion, from pain. How could his mouth, his finger feel so fantastic when now, his cock--it feels as if he could never get inside of her, that her body was simply not made to accommodate something of this size. No matter how much she loves him, it hurts, and she shivers underneath him.

He presses his forehead against hers. "Please, Yassamin. Trust me. Take a deep breath as I pull out, yes, that's it. Now exhale, exhale as deep as you can as I push inside. Can you do that for me?"

She nods, nods between the strands of his hair that now stick to her cheeks. She is wordless from pain, but she is also desperate for pleasure, desperate to take in all this love now trembling on top of her in the form of a man. Not a monster, not a ravisher, but her djinni, her djinni, her djinni. She closes her eyes and breathes, inhales and exhales as he rocks at her entrance, stretching her, finally making her his. It hurts, oh, it hurts and she cries out as she can feel something tearing, but he doesn't stop, no, only pushes straight past the pain, keeps moving in and out of her, and she keeps breathing. She thinks of how much she loves him, how she never told him, never told him even last night. And finally, finally the pain starts to give way to pleasure; finally, he can move inside her more easily; finally the haughty virgin is gone and nothing but Yassamin the lover remains. Finally, she blinks and tears spring into her eyes.

He looks at her askance, kissing her tears. "Does it hurt too much? Do you want me to stop?" 

"No, no," she says, her tears falling down her temples as she shakes her head. "You feel wonderful, so wonderful, please keep moving, please--" 

And he does, reaching deeper inside of her, stretching her wider than her own fingers ever could, the pleasure of it indescribable. He moans and gathers her into his arms, never ceasing his sweet, sweet movements inside of her as he lies down on top of her. He holds her against his body, rolling his hips shallowly as if to prolong his pleasure, hers by only tasting small, small sips of it. She still hurts, aches, that torn part of her stinging every time he moves in and out of her, but it is nothing compared to the pleasure she now derives from the pressure, the weight, the friction of his cock inside her. Oh, why did she resist for so long? She cannot stop crying, from her own foolishness, from her joy. And she never said the words--

"I love you," she cries, far too loudly, so loudly it startles him. She weeps and weeps, laughs. "I never told you, never told you because I was such an idiot. But I love you, Jaffar," she sobs underneath him, her words, her exhalation turning into a wail as his cock drags inside her, as his hips press so deep into her she thinks she will die there and then. And she could die happy, yes; she could die happy, now. "I love you, I love you, I love you," she repeats, prays, kissing his lips, his jaw, his neck.

"And I love you, my madwoman," he says, his voice breaking from joy, his eyes filling with tears, tears that now spill onto her cheeks, onto her throat. And he never stops moving inside her, never stops kissing her, never stops loving her. He buries his face in her shoulder, moans as his thrusts become faster, more violent. And she lets him, even if her entire body is shaking, even if she feels that at any moment, now, he will surely cleave her in two. She knew a man was a heavy beast, but never did she realise this was how it would feel like to lie underneath one: to be pounded into so that her very organs shake from the impact, to be impaled upon a pleasure that could easily, so easily smash her into a thousand gibbering, mad, rapturous pieces. Until now, she had thought the poets exaggerated when they said a lover could be slain by the beloved's embrace, but no longer does she doubt a word: now, her every exhalation is a scream, a moan, a cry of pleasure from the very depths of her being, each cry broken and shattered by the brutality of his thrusts. 

And she loves him, loves this brutality, loves that her hands are bound: she knows now that she would not have been able to surrender so completely had he not tied her up, had he only made love to her slowly. He claws at her hips, her back, roaring, growling, screaming into her ear, pounding into her like an animal; she hurts as he hits her womb again and again but even that is part of the pleasure. And she screams with him, screams out all her pain, all her frustration, all her idiocy until she is empty; until she is but heaving, hot flesh underneath him. It is then that even the pain transforms into pleasure, pleasure with no peak, no valley, only expansion, heat; and in this pleasure she encloses him, swallows him into herself.

He arches on top of her, crying out as if in pain, straining so that his every muscle trembles. "Please, my love," he pants. "I would not leave you unsatisfied."

But she sees the desperation in his eyes, hears his teeth snap as he tries not to move inside her. She would see his release, see him happy. "No, Jaffar, please; please don't hold back. Let me feel you, see you; please."

"Yassamin--" he throws his head back and closes his eyes, swallowing, stilling himself completely. He stays there, only breathing, his fingers twitching upon her hips as he draws his own pleasure out. He focuses on the moment so utterly that she finds herself stilling with him: her breathing slows down and there is nothing but the rush of her blood, the flutter of her cunny's muscles around his cock, the light glittering upon the rivulet of sweat running down his breastbone. 

He moans so softly she can barely hear it; his fingers twitch again and he jerks, and it is then that she can feel him spilling inside her, splashing against her womb. His cock slides in and out of her, his balls pressing against her cunny, he himself barely moving as he lets go. But she would see his face, never more so than now.

"Jaffar--"

He heaves and lets his head loll to his chest, his hair falling over his face. He opens his mouth but is unable to speak, his hips jerking, snapping without rhythm, his eyes staring without sense. With a dry, thin sob he falls over her, hugs her against himself and rocks into her, keeps moving inside her for so long she can feel his sperm spilling out of her. On and on, he keeps moving, until he finally crushes her against himself, convulsing against her, his entire body stiffening, trembling, then relaxing. In that moment, he frightens her; his very self-control even at the moment of orgasm makes her wonder whether he could truly break her, should that control one day slip. And to her horror, she finds she does not care, no; gladly, she would be broken by him, by his love. 

She wraps her legs around him and kisses his cheek, his neck, his shoulder, whatever part of him she can reach. "I love you," she murmurs again, whispers through his sweat-soaked hair. 

He moans, not lifting his face from her shoulder as he fumbles for the sash, freeing her wrists. She tugs the sash off and sinks her tingling fingers into his hair, pulling him into the deepest, softest of kisses. But even that is not enough: she wraps her arms and her legs around him, clutches him with her limbs and her cunny as tight as he had clutched her, trembling herself from sheer emotion. She is so happy, so happy; her belly and her chest full of warmth, his warmth her warmth, completely merged with each other's. 

They stay there for a long while, but holding each other, until he finally softens so that he slips free from her. She makes a little noise of disappointment, but he pulls them to lie side by side and kisses her.

"Don't think I'm finished with you yet," he says, smiling against her lips. "It will take a while to make up for so much lost time."

"I am glad," she says, and while he is weary, she is still restless, still curious. She pushes him to lie down on his back so that she may finally look at his cock, touch it, clasp it in her hand. 

He jerks back from her touch. "Careful."

She stops touching him immediately. "Did I hurt you?"

"No." He takes her hand and softly, gently lays it on his cock again. "It's just that it's always a little sensitive afterwards." She can feel it twitching a little under her palm, gliding against it, still wet from their fluids. "See? He likes you. Just be gentle with him."

 _"Him?"_ she bursts out laughing. 

"Mmm." 

"You are mad; quite mad."

He pouts at her, mock-indignant. "Some men _name_ theirs! Some women name theirs, too, for that matter."

"I don't have a name for mine." 

"Would you like me to name her?"

"I don't think the two of you know each other well enough for nicknames."

"There's a solution to that." He slips his fingers between her legs and tickles until she yelps, kicks. 

"Stop!" she squeezes his cock in revenge, until he, too, is yelping. Laughing, she wrestles him down and he lets her. Playfully, she sits on top of him, pinning his wrists to the bed. "Let me look at it."

"Very well." He tries to look past her hips and nudges her with his own. "Although I must warn you that he might not stay soft and friendly for long. Be careful, my lady; my instincts tell me he is soon ready for another assault."

She hops off him with a kiss. "What makes you think he-- _it_ ," she corrects herself with a roll of her eyes--"is my enemy?" 

He glances down at himself with a nod, towards the traces of her blood staining his cock. "I take it that I didn't hurt you too much?"

"No." She kisses his belly. "I look forward to the next assault," she says, laughing as his cock twitches a little against her chin.

He winces as he looks down at himself. "The washbowl is over there. Let me--"

But it's too late: she scoots downwards, pins his hips down and gives his cock a long, long lick. When he groans, she licks him again, marvelling at the softness of his skin, the tenderness of an organ that was so hard but moments ago, one that felt like it could run her through. She can taste herself, his sperm, her blood, and does not find the taste at all unpleasant; she relishes the surprised look on his face as she gently, firmly laps his cock clean. 

He shakes his head, letting out a huffing laugh. "You don't have to."

"Why?" she grins, nuzzling his sack. She feels wicked, deliciously wicked, being so shameless when it's only their wedding night. "Is it too sinful for a princess?"

"It's just that it's--ah, please--" he trembles as she clasps him in her hand and strokes him very gently, weighing him in her hand. He lets his head fall back on the pillows and groans. "You're too good to be true."

"Both the slave girl and the wife, I thought you said," she murmurs, pressing his cock against her cheek, nuzzling it. She cannot get enough of the wonderful touch of his skin, his own scent stronger now as he swells in her hand. "I would quite like to play the slave girl to you, my lord," she whispers, her own boldness shocking her, the utter shamefulness of what she is saying splashing hot and cold through her. That she, a princess--no, a _queen_ \--should express such a desire, such a perversion? A perversion of her status, of her dignity, of everything she has been brought up to be? 

And in her husband she reads her answer: the way his pupils dilate, the way his belly dips and trembles, the long, wicked moan that breaks from his lips. Yes, she would play the slave girl to him, would play both the wife and the harlot, would give him all the pleasures a woman can give. She thinks of all the women he's had in his bed and a new madness takes over her, fuelled by her pride, rushing, expanding within her: she wants to be better than all the rest, more beautiful, more skilled, more perverse than any woman he has ever met. She wants to exhaust him with lovemaking, prove the strength of her love to him by overwhelming him with it, wants to swallow him within her love so completely she will erase the memory of all other women from his mind. And as he swells, hardens in her hand, she knows this to be possible. No, not only possible but _easy,_ so easy, for had he not said he had eyes for no one but her? Had he not saved this prick for her and only her? 

Therefore, it is a new Yassamin that now chuckles, whose eyes now flash, who curls her back like a cat as she leans between Jaffar's legs and kisses his cock with an open, wet mouth. "Why so quiet, husband?" she murmurs, her cunny tightening, wetting itself anew as she lifts her buttocks high. "Would you not have me serve your every desire?" 

He moans again, snarls. "Be careful, my sweet; be very careful." His eyes are turned inwards in thought, yet full of fire as he strokes her cheek with his knuckles, slides his cock against her kissing mouth. "You don't know what you are asking for. I possess desires within me that are dark, so dark they would turn you inside out with fear, with disgust." He sinks his fingers into her hair, tightens his grip until little sparks of pain skitter all the way to her cunny. "I could _break_ you," he growls, and within his voice she can hear a note of shame, of regret. "Would you want that?"

But she is angry, angry at him for thinking so little of her. She squeezes her hand around his cock--from her books, she knows no man enjoys a grip this tight, let alone a woman's nails pressing into his flesh. "What makes you think I am afraid?" she snarls back at him. "What makes you think I don't want it? That I cannot take it?" She does not let him answer, only performs the act Leila had told her he loves: she licks her palm, then the other, then wraps both her hands around his cock, stroking him with twisting motions. 

In shock, in recognition, Jaffar stares at her, but as she completes the act by closing her mouth around the head of his cock, he throws his head back and moans. "Oh, God, oh, God, Yassamin, oh, God--"

Leila had not been exaggerating: his cock hardens further, each pulse of his veins making it grow thicker with blood, hot and full in her hands. This exhilarates her--that with such a simple act she can render him senseless, make him claw at the sheets. She continues her massage and tries to take him deeper into her mouth: her teeth graze the head a little, making him gasp, twist, but she does not stop. She tries to flick her tongue to the rhythm of her hands--she is erratic, clumsy, but to her surprise, he spurts a little on her tongue, an alkaline, salty splash. She can't not laugh, laugh around his cock as she eats, sucks his arousal into herself, feeling deliciously merciless at how the vibrations of her laughter now send his hips jerking upon the bed.

He stares at her in disbelief. "I never knew you would, that you could, oh--God--"

She pulls back and licks her lips. "That I could do what?" She slows down her hands, her cunny now so wet it drips in strings down to her thighs. She much prefers this; playing the courtesan instead of the chaste princess. She presses her lips to a spot just underneath the head of his cock, the one the books had told her was one of the sweetest, most sensitive parts on a man's body. To kiss that spot, to massage it, to whisper the right words as you did would bind a man to you forever, the manuals had said. They had recommended poetry, but she opts for the truth instead, seeing how pleasing he has found it so far. 

"Your cock tastes delicious, _master,_ " she says.

He cries out, his hands tightening in her hair. "You're impossible."

She licks up his cock. "I am also telling the truth."

"Then taste it, suck it," he hisses, clasping his hand over hers and guiding his cock into her mouth. He is rougher, now; she chokes a little as she tries to take his cock as deep as she can, and for a second, but a second he holds her head down, his eyes flashing with cruelty. He lets go soon enough, but it's too late: now that she has seen that flash, how could she ever turn back? Thus, she moans, sucks him harder, clasps his hand in her hair, urging him to do it again. As he chokes her once more, cutting off her breathing, a great convulsion of pleasure rocks through her body: as her muscles contract with her gagging, nowhere does she feel those contractions more violently than in her womb. Again, she is dizzy, in awe of what he is teaching her tonight, of the way one body part can stimulate another to an extent she never knew was possible. 

"More," she groans, flicking her hair away from her face, her eyes watering. "Please, master."

This time, he tugs her head down so violently her teeth graze his cock, but even as he hisses from the pain, he doesn't seem to care. He fists both of his hands in her hair, pushing her head down with a brutality that makes her ripple, quake with joy. That he trusts her, trusts her to be able to take this, this dark part of himself, that this is how much he loves her. Even if she cannot swallow him entirely, she thinks she is going to pass out not from a lack of air, but from sheer ecstasy. She sobs around his cock, her cunny clenching again and again, so flushed, so full now it _hurts_. She claws at his thighs, tears streaming from her eyes, and she forces herself to stay still for his pleasure, hers. Her vision dances with bright colours and she feels light, light--

But it is then that he wrenches her head up by the hair, leaving her gasping, saliva dangling off her chin, falling onto her breasts. For a moment, he holds her thus, his eyes slitted, his cock jerking against his stomach, all of his body trembling. She is no longer looking at a man but hunger itself become flesh, the way his eyes devour her, the way his entire being is poised to rend her, swallow her. 

And just as quickly, he moans in apology and gathers her into his arms, hugging her tight against himself, groaning into her shoulder. "I love you, you ridiculous girl."

She coughs, wipes her mouth and laughs. "How did I do?"

He smooths the smeared kohl around her eyes. "We'll make a slave girl out of you yet. And now, I would again ask you if that's what you truly wanted, but I fear you might slap me."

She wriggles on top of him, dragging her cunny against his cock, letting him feel how wet she is. "Perhaps I should, just in case you enjoyed it."

"You know me far too well already," he grins. "What else did the girls tell you about me?"

"You'll find out," she teases, sitting up and lifting his cock against her cunny. 

He laughs but stays still, helping her guide him inside herself. "Does it hurt now?"

"A little. But please, let me--" She draws in a deep breath and sits on him, rocks herself onto him, taking him slowly inside of herself. The pressure feels enormous in this position, the way his cock pushes at her womb, her innards. She trembles as she is is impaled, spread wide upon him, staggering a little, balancing with her hands against his chest. But her fingers tremble, too, as does her voice; she swallows a little whimper, forcing herself onto him.

"Shh." He licks his thumb and brings it to the top of her slit, rubbing softly. "We're not in a hurry. Take it slowly."

She shifts, seeking the best position to straddle him with, her knees slipping on the sheets. When she is finally comfortable, she leans over him, her hair cascading around his face. She feels better, now, but it is his smile that gladdens her the most, the tenderness with which he now inhales the perfume from her hair. Yet there is still mischief in her, a little devil in her that wants to be better acquainted with the one in him. "Does my master enjoy it when I take it slowly?"

He nuzzles her face. "He enjoys it very much. But there is one thing in particular that would please him greatly."

"Ask and it's yours."

"Such obedience," he leers, flicks his thumb over her clitoris. "You don't even know what it is that I want yet."

She dares rock her hips a little, roll them--oh, he feels perfect inside her, the movement spreading such wonderful warmth inside her, so she rolls her hips again. "Tell me."

He brushes his lips against hers. "As your _master,_ " he grins, "I order you to let me give you release this time. I never got to try my tricks on you," he says and wets his thumb again, returning it to rub at her, making her cunny tighten sweetly around his cock. 

She whimpers and rocks herself between the twin pleasures of his cock and his hand, croons against his smirking mouth. "What tricks would those be?"

"You'll find out." 

"Oh, you bastard--" she slaps his chest lightly, groans. But that only makes him buck underneath her, making the glide of his cock fast and long and she cries out, desperate for more. 

"Good girl," he purrs. "That's exactly what I want you to do. Pleasure your little cunny with my cock; go on. Ride me."

And she does, faster, faster. He feels so enormous inside her, yet it feels like she can never take him deep enough, hard enough. It is the strangest of paradoxes and she twists upon him, turns upon him as she looks for just the right angle of penetration, the friction driving her onto the brink of madness. However she moves upon him, however he rubs her cunny, she cannot reach climax, yet she does not know if she wants to, enjoying this torture far too much for it to end. For long moments, she rides him thus, possessed, until her thighs ache, until she curls over him so low her breasts brush against his face.

He nips at her breasts, bites them, laughs as she moans, the sharp snaps of pain going straight to her cunny, caressing her from the inside. It is then that she remembers what the girls had told her about the sensitivity of _his_ nipples--perhaps he is doing this because he enjoys his being played with, hurt, even? Thus, she returns this pleasure and pinches him in turn and oh, she was right--his laughter turns lower, darker, his hand on her cunny slower. And as he slows down, so does she, barely moving her hips, rolling his nipples between her fingers.

He lies still, but his face, his face! His eyes are slitted, drunk from the pleasure the pain now gives him. She can no longer hear the sounds of the sea or the creak of the ship; the only sound in the cabin is that of his breathing, the only light in it the blue flame of his eyes. He lies underneath her entranced, his facial muscles twitching, his mouth open, unable to form words. And all this just from her fingers, pinching such small pieces of flesh between them, his nipples heated and swollen, flushed dark from her sweet torture. That something so little could give him so much pleasure, that with but her fingers she could render him helpless like this, so beautiful? In awe, she stays so still she can feel his cock leaping inside her, his thighs trembling against her buttocks, all of Jaffar quiet, quiet.

She lets go, cupping his chest with her hands, soothing away the pain she has given him. "You are beautiful," she whispers, kissing his eyelids. 

He moans and sinks both of his hands into her hair, kissing her deep, slow, making love to her with his mouth, with his cock. As he moves inside her, he deepens his kiss and sucks her tongue, humming into her mouth, returning to her a taste of the sweet pain she had given him. He keeps going until she echoes that hum into his mouth, until they are both moving faster again, until the heat in her makes her press her thighs tight against his body. Finally, finally he finishes his kiss and smacks her buttocks. "Turn around."

"Like this?"

"Straddle me, face my knees, that's it. Oh--God--" 

She moans in surprise herself as she sits down on him. His cock seems to slide much deeper inside of her in this position, further towards her spine and she gasps, staggers from how good it feels. "Oh--"

"Better?"

She smiles at him over her shoulder, laughing in disbelief. _"Wonderful."_

He strokes her back, urging her to move a little. "I knew you would be the kind of woman to love it from behind," he says, breathless from happiness. "As it happens, it's my favourite, too."

And it is no wonder: again, she remembers the manuals--oh, her head is full of manuals!--and how this position is particularly pleasant for the male because of the way it bends his cock forwards a little, because of the depth of penetration it allows. Yet the books said nothing, absolutely nothing of the pleasure it brings for the female. She gasps, lifting a little, because he presses so deep into her body it feels strange, uncomfortable at first. Only tonight has she learned where her womb lay, even; but now it seems that he pushes a little behind it, to a spot where pleasure mixes with cold, unpleasant flashes. And she'd thought she'd felt impaled before! It was nothing compared to this, the near-nauseating intensity of such a complete penetration.

He runs his hands down her back, rubbing it in soothing circles. "Shh. Am I hurting you?" 

She laughs nervously. "I'm not quite sure."

"Remember to breathe." She cannot see his face, but can hear the smile in his voice, the warmth in it. "Take your pleasure of me until you come."

"Is that an order?" 

"Yes, my dear, that is an order." He smacks her buttocks with both hands. "Go on. Think yourself alone in the garden, with but your djinni, where no-one can see."

It is then that she realises no courtesans' tricks will do, now: he has seen her, has watched her, touched her so many times that he would immediately notice if she did something only to please him instead of herself. And this, this way he demands honesty from her, demands her to show herself to him as she is is the true savaging, here. Even when she cannot see his face, she shivers--but not from embarrassment, only from how completely, how fully he is now claiming her. He claims her past, her dreams and he gives them life; this makes her so deliriously happy that she laughs a little, laughs to herself as she brings her hand to her cunny and moves upon him. 

"Enjoying yourself?" he murmurs, his hands warm, loving upon her back.

"Yes," and she splays her legs more, leans forwards and cannot hold back a moan as he hits a part inside of her that-- _oh._ She moves back onto him again and yes, yes, the part the head of his cock now hits does not give her a tremor of heat, no, not a tremor but something far more violent, a _blow_ of pleasure that rocks her entire body. She repeats her motion and chokes, cries out so deep from her belly the vibrations of her voice ripple in her hips, her cunny, ripple all around his cock, increasing the same pleasure thousandfold. "Oh, God!"

"That's more like it." He grabs her by the hips and delivers that same blow again, again until she howls, completely failing to hold back her moans, so embarrassed she is sobbing. 

She bites her lip and strokes herself, keening on top of him. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be so loud--"

"Don't hold back. The louder you are, the better it will feel. Trust me."

"But I--Jaffar--" she flicks her hand on her clitoris and is shocked at how wet she is. She looks down at herself and sees she is dripping, dripping over his full, swollen balls and cries out again, again at each one of his strokes. The pleasure is unbearable, dizzying and she cries out once more, forcing herself to meet his thrusts, her other arm trembling as she balances upon the bed. "You're killing me--"

"Then die for me," he snarls, snapping his hips. "Scream for me."

But he doesn't have to tell her to: she shrieks, falls on her face upon the bed, screams like she is being slain, dying on his cock. And it's no exaggeration: she thinks she will die from this, never having experienced anything this intense, not in illness or in health. Her stomach flips, her womb contracts violently and she is close, close, but has never orgasmed this way, the weight and stretch of a cock so strange inside her. It feels like it _prevents_ her from reaching release, as if she needed her cunny to be empty, and she sobs in her frustration. "I can't, Jaffar, I can't."

"Yes, you can," he growls, pushing himself up and pressing her face down onto the bed, spreading his entire weight upon her. He slams himself inside her and stays within her, deeper than he has ever been before; she screams so hard the entire world goes black for a single, perfect second. But that darkness soon splits into colours, lights, the sensation of his hands in her hair, his voice in her ear. 

"Ride your hands. Just like in the garden. Just like you did last night. Show me."

Stiff, shaking, she slips her hands underneath herself and does as she's told. He lifts up for a moment to let her adjust her position, then kisses her neck. "Now, let your djinni love you," he murmurs, his voice breaking from tenderness. He presses down with his hips, rocking into her, so slow, yet so deep those coloured lights burst behind her eyes and she wails into the mattress.

"Let go, my love, let go," he whispers and never stops moving inside her. He is here, he is here, her djinni, the one who has always loved her, always. Her moans break into sobs as the pleasure sparkles, surges higher and higher within her, the ripples from her womb growing stronger and stronger. He is here, heavy upon her, his chest slick against her back, the heat and weight and width of his cock splitting her cunny, so enormous, so deep inside her. He rocks his hips but gently, now, and each time he hits her womb the ripples--no, the ripples have now turned into waves--crash through her, and she loses herself completely. Finally, finally her entire body shudders in release, each and every muscle on her body contracting, singing in ecstasy, her very soul pouring out of her body with her moans, cries, sobs. And all of it is for Jaffar, Jaffar, all of her offering itself up for his taking. _Drink me in,_ she thinks, cascading in her joy, rolling around him, washing him with her waves.

 _But I am,_ she hears him think and no, she did not imagine it, "But I am," he repeats in her ear, and she laughs, delirious at him having penetrated her mind, too. For now she can feel him, just at the very edges of her mind, embracing her, hugging her, drinking her tremors into himself. She laughs and laughs, her laughter sending another sparkling torrent of pleasure through her, her hips rocking, melting between her hands and his cock and his hips. And now she can feel him cascading into her, too, his laughter a warm purr in his chest, the ripples of it mixing with hers. He cries out loudly, as loud as she had moaned, his pleasure flowing, swirling hot against her as his sperm now swirls into her cunny. And even through that cry, even through the fury of his thrusts and the pain of his teeth on her shoulder she can hear him: _I love you, I love you, I love you._

"And I love you," she says out loud, turning around underneath him, holding his cock so that he does not slip out of her. She moves so that he can lie down on top of her, still hard within her, still rocking into her. And there, she gathers him into her arms, her djinni, her ravisher, her husband. She wraps her limbs around him and kisses him, kisses him through the aftershocks of his release, swallows each one of his soft whispers, cries into herself and treasures them in her heart. 

He is still floating against her mind, and she can feel him straining a little. Wordlessly, she beckons for him to lie upon her with his full weight again, clasping his back. "You've just slain me; there is no need to fear you would break me now," she murmurs against his cheek. 

"That explains it, then," he murmurs blearily, blowing tangled strands of hair from his forehead. "We must have slain each other." He groans in delight and stretches on top of her, his cock still nestled within her. "I _thought_ I was in Paradise, but wasn't quite sure. I am, now."

She hugs him tight against her chest. "I thought the same thing," she sighs, kissing his ear. "Let us never leave."

He laces his fingers with hers and smiles against her cheek. "We shan't."


	5. Chapter 5

It is completely dark by the time she wakes up. Her entire body aches; she is sticky between the legs. She gets up and fumbles around in the cabin, making her way to the washing alcove in the moonlight. His sperm flows down her thighs, abundant; she shivers in debauched delight at the way it sluices out of her into the chamberpot. She is a woman, now; finally a woman, she thinks, laughing a little as she mops herself with a wet cloth. She feels for her cunny, pets it, marvels at it, at this entirely new, pleasurable ache she can now feel humming inside of herself. It is most strange and most wonderful. 

She is still cleaning herself when Jaffar lights one of the lamps beside the bed. His hair mussed, he staggers out of bed and catches her in an embrace. "Hello." He ruffles her hair, and she is giddy at what a picture they make: two naked fools, messy-haired, sticky, hugging each other while standing up. She kisses him, but he excuses himself to go and clean up a little himself. It is fair enough: it's somewhat cold in the cabin and she crawls back under the bedcovers, listening as he relieves himself, washes himself. Again, she laughs, her heart light--that even the sound of his pissing should now feel intimate, inspire tenderness in her instead of revulsion, disgust.

"What are you laughing at?" he asks as he slips under the bedcovers with her, tickling her. "Hmm?"

She tickles him back, biting her lip. "I was just adoring my beautiful husband."

He shakes his head. "I will never tire of hearing that."

"The 'husband' part or the 'beautiful' part?"

"Both. What was it that you called me at the slave market? An ugly, wrinkled old goat you would never marry while you lived?"

She cups his face, stroking his high cheekbone with her thumb, gazing at the beauty of his eyes, so pale, so transparent even in the dim light. "And now I wonder how I could ever have thought you ugly." 

He kisses her palm. "I am glad."

She slips her thigh between his. "You _are_ an old goat, however."

He hugs her tight against himself and rumbles. "I thought I had progressed to the tiger stage by now."

She shrugs playfully. "Perhaps. I think I would need more evidence in order to make a fair judgement either way."

"Spoken like a true scientist--and an insatiable minx," he says, slapping her buttocks. "Pour us some wine, wife, and I might be able to assist you in your experiment."

So there they sit, sharing wine and sweetmeats, talking of love. Love, because he has forbidden other subjects for tonight, saying it would be bad luck. "How you spend your wedding night is an omen of how you will be spending each subsequent night for rest of your marriage. Would you not prefer love to politics or science?" 

But it is in the manner of two scientists, two intellectuals that they discuss love itself, she finds. They talk of the layers and meanings in their favourite love poems, debating which verse was meant to describe spiritual love and which one described mortal love, or whether it could be read as both. They compare and contrast different copies of the same love manual, filling in the gaps in each other's knowledge, and this, more than the wine, makes her cheeks glow, sets her heart alight. 

To share not only love and wine but knowledge--Jaffar had told her Ahmad was a dullard, and she no longer doubts it. A man of Jaffar's intelligence would find most people fools to begin with, and yet it astonishes her how well she can follow him. But even more surprising, she finds, is the way he listens to her intently, not treating her like a child at all. This, if anything inflames her passion even higher, now; it makes her giddy. He loves her not only for her beauty, not only for her body, but loves her for her mind, too--oh, she is glad, so glad she hums happily, leaning against his shoulder.

He sets down his cup and reaches for the bottle to refill it, but she grabs his wrist. "No more than one cupful in the company of a lady," she says, emptying her own.

He sets both their cups down beside the bed and lies down with her. "Well, well. You really do insist on being pleasured all night, do you?"

She lies on top of him and wiggles her toes. "Are you complaining?"

"No, no." He gives her a little kiss. "I will gladly love you all night, even if I have to resort to sorcery."

"This does not feel like sorcery." She rubs her hips against him, against his half-hard cock. 

"Mmmm. You may play with him later, on one condition."

"I am listening."

"Turn around; I would taste you again."

He doesn't have to tell her twice. Gladly, she lies down on her stomach as he begins to kiss her back once more. This time, knowing he truly wants to taste her fully makes the wait even more excruciating: slowly, he covers her back in kisses that gradually grow more heated, to stoke her desire, his. And now, in the dark, he too seems darker, bolder, more violent, more sure of himself, having seen a glimpse of her own darker desires. This time, he moans openly, pants, churrs as he bites her shoulders, her sides; this time, she is sure his fingernails leave marks. 

And she loves this heat, loves this burning, now fully awake, aware, stirring further with each one of his bites. She responds to his moans with her own, showing him how much she is enjoying each kiss, each caress; he chuckles against the small of her back, delighted, his own lust quickening at her response. A true lover is demonstrative, that much she knows: at first, she has to remind herself to make noises, to breathe, to show him the true effects of his caresses instead of keeping the sensations to herself. But within minutes, her cries come spontaneously, easily, for now she is no longer in her garden and need not hide her pleasure. Her hips lift off the bed without her telling them to do so; her cunny drags a wet stripe against his chest and again, she moans, openly whorish now, the pleasure-- _Jaffar_ \--triumphing over her shame.

Jaffar, the conqueror of her shame, her pride, her body: she shakes at how much she loves him, how much she loves to be taken, claimed like this, cries out as his caresses become more forceful still. Now, he lifts her hips so that she is kneeling, her face pressed down into the mattress, the air cool on her exposed, wet cunny. 

"Oh, but that is _beautiful,_ beautiful," he croons, slapping her buttocks. "You should see yourself. I can think of no sight in the world more beautiful than a woman posed like this," he purrs, spreading her buttocks, blowing on her cunny until she jerks. "Like a cat in heat, the way your cunny is pushed out, all plump and full like that, oh--"

His shamelessness makes her cunny clench, and he notices it, chuckling, his mouth so close to it now. "I should _fatten you up,_ " he drawls, biting one buttock, then the other. "Make this cunny, this arse but big, soft cushions for me to push into."

And now she whimpers, thinking of herself fattened up like the wives of Turks, eating sugar all day so that she can become all sugar for him, all flesh for him to take. To be but an object of his pleasure--she should hate it, but her pride lies dead, quiet underneath her craving for him. To be that princess he had dreamt of, to be posed for him like this every night, to be looked at by him, touched by him, taken by him, his _treasure_ \--the treasure he had bought at the slave market for a hundred thousand dinars. To exist for desire and desire alone, like his courtesans; her cunny flows honeyed, hot, her womb aching for the sweet blows of his cock.

"Please," she cries, unable to bear it any longer.

It is then that he kisses her cunny, laps at her slit; each soft, wet lick unbearably sweet, maddening. But it is his voice, his breathing that undoes her the most: the way he pants into her, sucks her, moans into her as if he had never tasted anything as delicious in his life. Her unmanly man, he the tomcat to her she-cat, lapping at her like a bowl of cream, his tongue slip-slip-slipping upon her cunny fast and noisy. Her toes curl upon the sheets; she pushes herself back against his touch with such pressure that she meets his teeth, so that his moustache rubs her raw, but she doesn't care.

"Please, more," she cries again, desperate.

And it is more that he gives her; he slips his fingers inside her cunny, moving them inside her shallowly. "Is that better?"

"How many fingers is that?" she gasps. Even after his cock, the stretch feels overwhelming. 

"That's just two," he says, smiling, dropping a kiss on her hip. He brings his other hand to her clitoris and starts to rub there, too, slowly; the wonderful sensation makes her cunny clench around his fingers so hard they almost push him out completely. Yet he pushes back inside with determination, deeper inside her, so deep, so near to her spine he strikes sparks; her eyes roll back in her head. And there, he turns his hand so that his fingertips rub against that deepest part of her, what seems like the very centre of her being, sparkling white and blue and perfect. How did she not even know of the existence of such a place? She stills under his caresses, so perfectly focused on just the pressure of his fingertips, on the exquisite pulses of pleasure they send through her hips, her entire torso, rendering her completely quiet.

He notices her silence, then moves his fingers again, his voice softer now, shot through with awe. "It's just as I'd suspected," he says, smiling. "You are a woman best pleasured from behind--it's in the tilt of your womb, you see. Very few women are built like this; fewer still melt as you do from this caress." And he adores this, as if this were something he had always sought and only now discovered. Perhaps this is tied to his love of a woman posed like this, his own pleasure at taking a woman from behind? How many other women has he touched like this but not loved? How many other women have enjoyed this but not loved him? Is she the first one? She is desperate to know. The pleasure makes her careless, foolish, selfish, but she has to know, so she asks him.

"What does it matter, if you will be my last?" he laughs, then lifts his hand, showing her the glimmering strands of her own arousal. "As if this could ever be anything except extraordinary?" He licks his fingers, then resumes his kissing of her cunny, his words slurred, drunk from her taste. "Never have I loved a woman as I love you," he murmurs, "body and soul." Yet, he makes an agonised noise, presses his forehead into the small of her back. "Please. Please tell me I am not mistaken in my love; that you truly do return it." He lifts his face; his mouth and his eyes are glittering, wet.

His fear, his insecurity is like a knife to her heart. Yet it is her fault; she was the one who had awakened this fear in him and she feels she has been cruel, capricious. She reaches back with her hand, laces her fingers with his. "Never have I loved anyone as I love you, my djinni; never has my body yearned for anyone the way it now yearns for you. I am sorry." She blinks back tears herself. "Please, Jaffar. Please, take me." 

He groans, sniffles a little, then kisses her cunny once more. "I will, oh, I will, so completely; as completely as a man can take a woman." Groaning again, he licks all the way from her clitoris to her anus, and there he stays: he spreads her buttocks and laps at her hole, laps at it, stabs it with his tongue. 

"Oh, God!"

He laughs and wets his thumb in her cunny, then presses it against her arse, massaging it. "You have always enjoyed this touch so much; it's only fair that I should now give you the pleasure in full."

He dips his thumb inside her arse and she cries out in shock, her cunny clenching again and again at how wonderful the intrusion feels. She has pushed a finger inside of her arse before, but his thumb is much bigger, thicker as it penetrates her, tugs upon her muscles, a sharp lash of both pain and pleasure running through her until she does not know which is which. She is scared, scared of pain, but she wants this, wants him so much. Nothing he has done to her so far can compare to this, the physical intensity, the sheer dirtiness of him inside of her arse--and all this but from his thumb. How could she ever take his prick? 

Yet his touch feels even better here than it did inside her cunny, and she remembers Noor: if that pampered little strumpet can take it, so can she. No, she can do _better_ than a slave girl, for she _loves_ him. She loves Jaffar, and Jaffar loves her, and as he begins to lap at her hole, still tugging it open, she wails and pushes back into his touch. She is clean, but the act still makes shudders of wonderful, sinful disgust and delight run through her; that he should love her so that no part of her body is taboo for him, that he insists he should claim all of her, even the parts normally filled with filth. 

That he should want to love her like a man loves a boy, a slave girl, a wife, in all the ways a human being can love another, so completely, so utterly. How could she not want such love, whether it caused her pain or not? She looks down between her legs and sees how hard he is, his cock slapping against his stomach, dripping from arousal; beautiful, terrifying, perfect. 

"Please, Jaffar," she whimpers. "Show me." 

He pulls his thumb out, rubbing her anus gently, now. "Only if you truly want it, my lady. It will be painful at first, especially for a beginner. But know that I would not offer it to you if I didn't think it would bring you pleasure, built as you are."

He needn't say it; she already knows, trusts him. "Please." 

He chuckles and pulls her into his arms, kissing her, a slow, deep kiss sweet from her cunny. "You'll have to prepare me. But a moment."

He leaves the bed briefly to rummage around in one of his bags, then returns with a small jar of cream. He kneels beside the bed and hands the jar to her with a kiss. "Here. I'll let you put it on me yourself. Use as much as you wish."

And all of a sudden, he seems so vulnerable as he kneels there, exposed, still, his cock bobbing in the night air. She scoops up some of the cream--it's thick, white, scented with roses and sweetened with honey; the sort used to soften the skin. It soon turns transparent and liquid in her hands as she gently covers his cock with it, his cock even hotter than her hands, so hard as she clasps him with both hands, now. She can't not kiss the head of his prick, suck on it a little, excitement curling in her belly. He moans, and her cunny drips onto the bed: that this cock that had so hurt her cunny will soon hurt her arse even more--this, she knows, but she wants it. She deserves a little pain for her jealousy, deserves to pay a price for this act she has been so fascinated by. So many afternoons she has spent in her garden, caressed by him, by her own fingers, intoxicated by that mixture of pleasure and pain, but she knows all that she has felt until now has been but a fragment of a much greater pleasure. For a moment, she takes his cock as deep into her throat as she can; oh, she wants this violence, wants to be split wide open by this pleasure, no matter what it takes.

And it is her greed, her hunger that now evaporates his vulnerability, stirs him into rougher caresses. For a moment, his hands tremble in her hair; for a moment, she looks into his eyes and sees the struggle within him, the courtly lover warring with the hungry beast. And with her mouth, with her body she submits, shows him how much she needs to be taken: she curls her back, again like a cat in heat, massaging his cock with her slick hands. She moans around his length, moans of need, of yielding, moans to silence the courtier and to awaken the beast.

He looks at her, laughs, shakes his head, and it is then that his control finally cracks. "God," he growls and clasps the back of her head, holding her in place, cruel; he reaches behind her and pushes slick fingers inside her arse, making her scream around his cock. At each curl of his fingers, a shock of pleasure-pain whips through her, sears through her and nothing could feel as magnificent. She moans around her beast, urging him on with her eyes and her mouth, listens to his every word, growl, hiss. 

Yet he still needs reassurance, pushing into her mouth shallowly, trembling from the effort to hold back. "You want it, you want it, tell me you want it." He stabs his fngers deep inside her, snarling. "Let me hear you say it." 

She pulls back with a gasp, a cough, a moan, pushing herself back on the fingers sliding so easily inside her arse now, making her cunny pulse with heat. "Please, please," she gasps against his stomach, his cock rubbing against her cheek, wet, slick. She wants him, she wants him so much there are no ladylike words left for the enormity of desire she now feels; like a harlot, she moans against him. "Please, fuck me."

His eyes flash and he keens in wicked abandon, pushing his cock back into her mouth, cutting off her breathing once more. And there he ruts for long moments, taking her throat brutally until she gags, weeps. He tugs on her arse so hard she is pushed forwards on the bed, towards him, sobbing from pleasure as he fills her from both ends, rubbing her arse and her throat raw. Yet, why does he still tarry? Again, she coughs, pulls back. 

"Please, master," she moans, her saliva dripping off his cock. She scoops up more cream and covers him with it, looks up at him, furious from her need. "Please, _fuck me._ "

And swiftly, with a mighty cry, he is upon her. He drags her onto her knees, the same position she was in before, plastering himself against her back. "God, Yassamin, God," he keens as he starts to press inside her arse, hurting her, stretching her, each push terrible, awful, wonderful, making her scream into the sheets. He slips, failing to find the right angle; even in her pain, she helps him, tries to move her hips, tries to breathe just as he had told her to do before. He is shaking, he is fumbling, and it is most strange that she should now be the one helping him, guiding him in her ravishment. Yet her heart fills with tenderness, delight.

"I love you," she murmurs over her shoulder, breathing deep, pressing herself against him, spreading her buttocks for him. "I love you, I love you," she says even as the pain makes her face contort in agony, makes her freeze in place. The pain feels as if it will never end; the more he pushes inside her the worse the pain gets, her stomach somersaulting from nausea. _This is a sacrifice,_ she thinks, her mind in a chaos: in love, she throws herself upon him, impales herself upon him the way heathens pierce themselves with needles in tribute to their gods. She truly is split wide open for him, wide, hot, hurting, all of her an open wound--

\--and it is then that the wide open pain, the stretch melts into an altogether sweeter, smoother sensation, a heat that no longer cuts her but flows, pulses through her as liquid whiteness. He is not very deep inside her, yet; he has hit some curve in her body he cannot move past, but it feels wonderful nevertheless, even the way his cock now presses into that curve, that tightness. She is still a little nauseous at having her guts filled so; her arse tries to clench around him but cannot, that's how wide he is, stretching her, holding her open.

And this openness is nothing like the way his cock had felt in her cunny, no; his hands are soft upon her belly and he whispers love in her ear, love, love. And it is love that now spreads her open wide, expands her until she cannot stop expanding. She keeps opening, unfurling, spreading, a sea of red and white and black, wave upon wave, sigh upon sigh. 

And at the centre, at the very centre of her soul and of her flesh, the one thing all of her now spreads around, revolves around, sings around: Jaffar. His chest expanding, contracting against her back, his hair wet against her cheek, his hips hot and sweaty, the bones of them hard against her buttocks. His love, inside of her, around her, holding her so, piercing her so, dissolving her.

"Jaffar," she sighs. She flows, ripples, radiates; she is made of but waves of light. 

He combs her hair aside with his fingers and cups her head so that he can kiss her. He moves a little inside of her, a moan shuddering from his mouth to hers. "You feel so wonderful," he sighs, his eyes glazed, languid from joy. 

"So do you," she whispers, kissing him back, pressing her hips back against him. "Please. Don't stop."

He kisses her temple; he rolls his hips, rolls them, catching her moans from her mouth with his lips. "Touch yourself."

It's difficult for her to do so in this position, but she tries. Her cunny is so wet, so swollen she can hardly find the tip of her clitoris at first as she starts to rub herself, so great is her pleasure. And as he starts to move inside her in longer strokes, she feels herself grow wetter, hotter still. She had no idea a woman could feel like this and bites her lip, whimpering at each one of his strokes. The pleasure peaks so sharply, so fast it takes her by surprise: her cunny clenches again and again, and with the very next breath she takes, orgasm overtakes her. She exhales in astonishment, inhales, exhales again as violent, sharp ecstasy strikes through her, flashes like lightning, a white and quick shock that vibrates her very bones. And each of his strokes is a smaller flash, the pleasure remaining at such a high level even after the short, sharp climax: it is a marvel, a strange marvel and she thinks she may be losing her mind. 

"Jaffar," she cries, not understanding what is happening to her, but it is then that he slips past that tight curve inside her and for a moment, she ceases to exist. The whiteness swallows everything, everything, then bursts into a sea of red, of stars, of spasms tearing at every single muscle in her body. What is happening? She thinks of asking him, but she cannot form words, even his name any longer. 

But he is there, he is there with her, sharing his pleasure with her, leaning over her again, his mind entwining itself with hers the way he now entwines their fingers. He senses her discomfort, senses her pain, the sensations she cannot explain and soothes her, shows her what he is doing, how wonderful it feels. He draws her into his experience and there, there: it is her womb he has just pushed past, he tells her; he has reached that self-same spot that gave her so much pleasure when he had touched it through her cunny. _All sweetness, all sweetness, but sweetness and delight,_ he sings through her.

He pulls out almost completely and as he pushes inside once more, she can feel the way she is squeezing him, pleasuring him with the curves, the muscles of her body: the sweet spasm of her anus around the root of his cock, the play of the air upon his wet cock and his balls, the soft heat of her cunny against them. And then the same squeeze, doubled--the head of his cock sliding past her womb, that most sensitive part of his cock encircled tight by her body, the pleasure so magnificent he sobs, his balls tightening, spurting a little inside her guts. 

And she opens herself, opens because she cannot stop opening, unfolding; she spreads herself wide and wraps him within the whiteness of her own pleasure, calling him deeper within herself, to lose himself within her love. She moves her hips, fucks herself upon his cock, rubbing her clitoris, keening her need. _Inside me,_ she thinks, _complete yourself, complete me, come inside me, inside of me, husband, inside me._

And it is at that that he howls, slaps her hand away from her cunny, stroking her himself, fucking her so hard she is awakened from her trance, shaken into full consciousness, ecstasy. "Come with me," he snarls into her shoulder, his thrusts erratic, "Take me, my love, take me, take me."

And she does, pushing her hands against the bed, arching her back, taking him with her hips, her arse, her cunny against his fingers. With her entire body, with her entire mind, her entire pleasure she takes him, swallows him. She fucks him back as violently as he is fucking her; she is roaring now, screaming, moaning louder than ever before, the waves of her voice stirring up the ripples of another orgasm within her. Yet this time, it is much stronger, she knows it, knows it from the way her hips now spasm around his cock, the way her cunny trickles onto his fingers. Her skin is covered in goosebumps, streaked with cold sweat; he wraps his arm around her neck and she chokes, convulses against him. 

"I will count to three," he pants, all of him trembling, his sweat running in rivulets down her back. "Each time, breathe." As he lets go of her neck, he becomes completely animal, no tenderness to his thrusts now, he slamming into her, rubbing her cunny so that the cabin is filled with but the wet noises of flesh. "One. Two--"

And she breathes, breathes with him, gathers all of herself, balls all of her pleasure up and strains, waits, waits--

"Three." 

And she exhales, explodes into perfection and he is there, waiting for her, surging into her mind and her body, flowering through her, the pleasure multiplied thousandfold as it echoes through their bodies' chambers, radiant, iridescent, sparkling. Their bodies rock, tossing upon each other, he pushing into her, she throwing herself back upon his cock, screaming out every wave, every ripple, every sunburst of her ecstasy. And he swallows it all from her, feeds it back to her; he empties himself into her again and again, unable to stop, become but sperm, but adoration, but ecstasy himself: saturating her, flooding her, enveloping her whole. He drowns himself in her, she drowns herself in him; together, they fall, sink, sink into a torpor, insensate, purified, empty, at peace.

For long moments, there is only darkness, the warmth of bodies, he glowing within hers, she glowing within his. The lamp sputters and dies; she drifts in and out of sleep. At some point during the night, she can feel him leaving the bed, using the washbowl again. Sleepily, he whispers against her back as he climbs into bed, his words indistinct, but a soft murmur of love. She is too asleep to respond, her limbs and her eyelids too heavy, so she is content to but lie in his arms, bask in his warmth.

"Sorceress," he murmurs, pressing his wet cock against her buttocks, erect once more. "You have so bewitched me that you have robbed me of sleep," he says as he guides himself inside her cunny. Yet she is still so asleep she cannot even moan; she only trembles a little as he penetrates her and stays still. She can feel him looking around in her mind, wondering if she is only pretending to be asleep; he laughs a little as he realises how tired she is and hugs her against himself. And he falls asleep there, too, still nestled inside her. 

Her dreams are full of nothing but contentment, sunlight, bliss.

***

Gulls. The sound of gulls! She rushes to the deck, where Jaffar awaits her. She is so excited to see land on the horizon that she does not even mind Jaffar--scandalously--embracing her in public. 

He wraps his cloak around her from behind and tucks his chin over her head. "In case you were wondering, that is indeed Basra."

"At last. My fool has seen the error of his ways." She is still intoxicated, still shameless from days of lovemaking, murmuring quietly as she leans back against his chest. "Strange how much power a woman's cunny can have. Have a care, my lord; I think I could grow used to this."

He chuckles and kisses her veil. "What makes you think I would mind in the least?" His voice lowers into a purr; he presses his hips against her back. "I am yours to command, my lady."

She laughs and shakes her head. "This is how they tame hunting-pards, you know. They bind the cat's legs with ropes and every day, its keeper comes to offer it food and caresses; hours and hours of caresses. Until it finally grows to love its master and submits to his will."

"Ah, but which one of us is the cat and which one is the keeper?" 

She pokes his ribs with her elbow. "You're hopeless."

He claws at her waist and lets out a playful growl. "Don't blame a cat for having a cat's nature. Perhaps a little more taming is in order? I quite like the idea of being bound and caressed into submission. What do you think?"

Her only answer is a moan; his shamelessness makes her flush scarlet and she pulls her veil tighter about her face. "I still think you are an idiot," she mumbles.

He hugs her tighter against himself. "And that's why you love me."

She lets herself be held, gazing out to Basra, at its blue minarets, its pink domes, _home_. Yet it is the strangest thing to look upon your home and find it almost alien, new; for whether in Basra or Baghdad or upon the open sea, there is a new home for her heart, now. 

She lifts his hand to her lips and kisses it, quiet, soft. "I do, my fool. I do."

***

END

***


End file.
